


Let The World Slip

by LateStarter58



Series: Scenes with Martha and Tom [1]
Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Jealousy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-12 21:18:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16879350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateStarter58/pseuds/LateStarter58
Summary: “Sit by my side, and let the world slip: we shall ne’er be younger.”The Taming of the Shrew, William ShakespeareFrom the first time she saw him, Martha knew Tom was not for her. Too good-looking, too posh, too privileged… And anyway, she had her own furrow to plough, her career as an actor/director and writer to build. And he only wants to be her friend, right…?





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> The Tom in this story has some similarities to the real one, but I have played fast and loose with his career details. And as for Martha, well, she is completely fictional, but she resembles Maxine Peake in appearance, and in politics, come to that. But much of her history is not unlike my own, her professional life excluded. Some will find her difficult to love - she is abrasive, but challenging, not an easy person; at the time I wrote this, I wanted that for him. I still do.

**_“If I be waspish, best beware my sting”_ **

_The Taming of the Shrew, William Shakespeare_

****

**_What have you got to lose that you haven’t already lost?_ **

_(From ‘Scenes’ by Martha East)_

****

## PRESENT DAY: JULY 2015

It was raining. It seemed to have been raining constantly since he had returned from the sunshine of Mallorca. He had been to California for a brief dunking in the heat and light, then back home to the tan-fading gloom of a London July. It was as if the sky was mocking him for coming home. But it wasn’t working, because he quite liked it, especially today. He could put the lights on, make a cup of tea and settle down in a comfy chair with good book – or in this case, a script. Her script.

He sat down, put his mug within easy reach and opened the fat envelope the motorcycle courier had delivered just fifteen minutes before. He’d been delighted when he saw her name in his inbox, and intrigued when he read the email. She’d asked him to read something she’d written for BBC Radio. They had accepted it already – _of course they had, why wouldn’t they? She was phenomenally talented_ – and she was to star and direct, naturally. A two-hander: a quick job, the producer mentioned his name… _was he interested? Stupid question._

Pitter-patter, tick-tock,tip-tap went the raindrops on the roof high above him. A couple of sparrows, or possibly pigeons did a dance routine on the tiles. Traffic rumbled faintly, a child shouted from over the garden wall. This was one of his favourite places in the world, this chair. Books in arms reach, tea close by, reading light on against the unseasonal gloom. From there he could travel anywhere: Asgard, Louisiana, Cumbria, the Caribbean: wherever a talented writer might want him to visit.

He breathed slowly for a few minutes, consciously clearing his head, and then he looked down at the page.

**_“SCENES”_ **

**_by Martha East_ **

He paused again, his pulse quickening despite his attempts to instil calm. A small grin of pride on his face, he glanced at his bookshelves a few feet away. Just the sight of his books could soothe him, and he wanted to read this particular script slowly and carefully.

 

CHARACTERS:

HER …………………………..(unspecified, probably late 20s)

HIM …………………………..(unspecified, probably late 20s)

Setting mid-noughties, flats, cafes and bars in London and other UK and European cities.

Tom turned the page and read on, skimming the first scene until an exchange gripped his attention:

****

**HER                       (conspiratorially) Seriously, watch yourself near that lot. (pause). Look dodgy don’t they?**

HIM                       Oh, er… yes. Right. (coughs)

_HIS IV                    Is she nuts, or joking? I’d do anything to hang out with that crowd. Shit! Now, say something vaguely intelligent._

**_HER IV                    Oh dear god he is BLOODY GORGEOUS. Bit posh, but… Do I look OK? Nails? Hair? Teeth? This jumper is so frumpy. I look like a maiden aunt. Shit! Right. Different angle. Flash yer brains at ‘im, love. Before he joins the ranks of the ‘successful’ and never looks back in your direction._ **

*****

## JUNE 2014

After one glass of champagne, she decided to slip away quietly. The dressing room was packed with friends and Judith would be fine without her. Martha was tired and this last drink, on top of the three she had enjoyed before and during the performance, was beginning to take its toll. She squeezed through the crowd and made her way down the winding corridors to the Stage Door, stepping out into the unseasonal chill of the London night. There were a few fans waiting, and some recognised her. She posed for pictures and signed the odd autograph. One or two of the more knowledgeable ones asked her what she was up to and she mentioned her radio projects, the all-female _Tempest_ she was trying to organise and a few juicy film parts she was considering. No details, of course, since nothing was finalised. She hated times like this, when she had several plates spinning but nothing she could eat off: no actual cast-iron jobs in the offing. But there was plenty to look forward to, in the not too distant, she hoped.

The pavements were damp: it must have rained while she was in the theatre, so Martha decided to head home. She owned a car but rarely used it in town, so she strode out along the street looking for an empty cab. She had been trying for five minutes without luck when she heard him.

“Martha! Hey!”

She turned and there he stood.

_He looks thin,_ was her first thought. Then she took in his ruddy-cheeked grin and immaculate suit.

“How the hell are you, darling? You look great.”

She knew that was a typical polite lie: she was wearing a three-year-old shirt and jeans, she had washed her hair but her make up was a scrape which had probably worn off with sweat and the many backstage kisses she had shared. And anyway, she always felt she looked a mess when she stood in front of Tom. Never up to the mark. Not for him.

“Oh but Thomas William, how are you? Been to a show, have you?” she asked. Then she noticed he was not alone. Next to him was a short willowy brunette of the type she knew he favoured. She squinted slightly, trying to ignore the irritation that was rising. _It’s none of your business who he dates, Martha._

“Yes, we’ve just been to the _Aldwych_. Excellent stuff, wasn’t it, darling?”

The doe-eyed woman next to him nodded, already bored with the encounter, it seemed to Martha. There was an awkward silence. Martha just stared at her waiting for her to introduce herself, then for him to do so. Silence. She tasted bile: why did he waste his time with these… people?

“I’m Martha East” she said extending her hand, but getting no response. “Nice to… On your way home Tom?”

She was the worse for drink, _tired and emotional_ as her old pal Judith would have said, and she needed to get home and away from Tom and this…person.

“We were just going to get a drink, up at the Tulip. Care to join us? I’d love to catch up, hear what you’re up to.” He was smiling at her in that sweet, irresistible way of his.

She considered it for a nanosecond. She pictured herself in a booth with them, trying to make small talk with him and even worse, _her._ She had no right to object to this woman, she knew precisely _nothing_ about her, and yet she disliked her with a fiery passion already. She guessed from Tom’s expression that she had shown it on her face, because he looked puzzled. ‘ _Darling’_ just looked furious, annoyed.

“Yes, yes, whatever you want Tom. Hi. I’m Susy Barrymore.”

  _American._ Of course. The ‘Darling’ of the day was, after all, not mute, and had a _name_. One with a history. Too bad good DNA skipped a generation or two frequently.

“I don’t think so, Tom. Thanks, but I’m pretty shattered and I’d better get home. Too many shampoos backstage with Jude.” She took a step towards the kerb and stumbled on her stupid stiletto boots; she dropped her papers and her book on the damp street.Tom caught her by the arm. He looked into her eyes, his face a picture of concern. He was always the better mover of the two of them; she could never react as quickly.

“I think I’d better escort you home, Martha. You don’t mind, do you, darling? Come on, let’s find us a cab.”

Thirty minutes later he was opening her front door for her, having asked his extremely unhappy girlfriend – _is that what she is?_ – to wait for him in the taxi. She felt ashamed of the look of triumph she had given the woman as she left the cab. It was childish, she was drunk, but the very last thing she wanted was to share Tom.

“Water, then bed, darling.” He was putting on the lights and hanging up her jacket. He’d been there many times before, of course, and he went straight to the kitchen, tutted audibly at the pile of dirty plates by the sink and returned with a pint glass of water, which he made her down.

“I’ll text you in the morning to check you’re alright. Now, bed.” His commanding tone allowed for no argument. He sat her down on her bed and removed her boots. He looked up at her, his signature grin, his caring eyes.  Marthawas uncharacteristically quiet, thinking of all the things she wanted to say to him. All those things she had said in her head a hundred times, and even – just once or twice – in her dreams. One almost burst out: _don’t go, don’t go to HER._

She nodded meekly. “OK, I’ll let you be the boss. Just this once, Hiddleston.” She shook her finger at him. “Don’t get used to it.”

He stood, bent and kissed her on the cheek, his lips brushing over her skin as she closed her eyes to savour the sensation. Before she opened them again he was gone.

********

## PRESENT DAY

He was back onstage in Norwich, eight years ago:

_“Doth my simple features content you?”_

He remembered the look in her eye as she ran her gaze over him to exaggerated effect, then saying to the audience,

_“Your features! Lord warrant us, what features?”_

Every bloody time she got such a great laugh at his expense. He smiled, rested the script on his knee for a moment and picked up his almost-empty mug: ‘Shakespearean Insults’, appropriately.

This first meeting between the couple in the script: it had brought that first run-through and rehearsal with _The Queen’s Players_ to mind. How their friendship had grown, slowly at first. She had been prickly, hard-shelled and standoffish, which only made him try harder to winkle his way under that carapace, because he wanted to get to know her better. She glowed, outshining everyone else in the company. Her role was tiny but her stardom seemed inevitable, and once he learned she was a fledgling playwright too he redoubled his efforts.

Not that she made it easy for him. She never let an opportunity to challenge him pass. Onstage, offstage… Still didn’t, come to that. Others found it harder to handle, and he heard them call her ‘The Beast’. None of it seemed to bother her in the slightest. He would watch her taking on all comers in lunchtime political debates. The consensus of the group was left of centre, but not radical enough for Martha. She argued cogently against the Blair government’s policies on education, health and, of course, overseas wars. Not a mindless polemic, but rather a reasoned position backed up by a firm grasp of the facts, and most days she managed to convert a few fence sitters to her side.

During these sessions, he had watched, listened and admired, keeping his own counsel, fearing another hour-long argument filled with witty and snarky remarks. She never let him forget that because his was a life of luxury and ease compared to the majority and he had the invaluable opportunity of an extraordinary education, he had now the obligation and responsibility to work harder. To be better and, most important, be an instrument of change. And, grudgingly, over the years since, he had come to accept she had been right.  He _had_ struggled to find work; he _had_ been turned down endlessly for roles, made a mess of auditions, felt a failure. He had toiled on, determined to succeed when it seemed unlikely, knowing this was the actor’s lot. He accepted it: it suited his dogged personality, his workaholic nature. But he knew also that unlike her, he had a safety net, a cushion of money and comfort that she did not.

Now they were both successful, both doing what they had dreamed of, and he had been hoping that she would ask him to be in one of her productions. In fact, truth be told, he had begun to harbour a mild offence that she had not offered him anything so far. It wasn’t rational: most of her work was outside his normal range. He had to admit his was hardly the first name that came to mind if casting a story about a kid on a council estate or a struggling single-mum in Tottenham. And he hadn’t done much radio in years, either, and that was where she had been spending the majority of her time lately. Even so, it hurt a little. But now she had sent him a script.

Feeling the excitement rising in his chest again, he got up and walked into the kitchen. He put the kettle on and rinsed his cup while it boiled. The raindrops were still falling steadily, merging as they trickled down the window, making it hard to see the bedraggled geraniums in the pot his mum had left on the terrace after her last visit. His garden lacked colour, but he couldn’t maintain pots and baskets when he was away so much. He had a few shrubs that blossomed in the spring, and a couple of things that came up in the tatty beds: daffodils and irises. He’s like to do more, but it would be a waste, with no one here to enjoy it. So it stayed quite bare: just an empty house, looking out on a largely empty little garden.

And suddenly he felt his garden was not the only monochromatic thing in his life. Or the only empty, flat thing.

Another cup brewed, he returned with it to his chair and picked up the script. He nibbled on the biscuit that had somehow managed to stowaway on his trip from the kitchen. A gust of wind whistled around the eaves, making it feel more like late September than late July. He snuggled down in the big leather armchair before his eyes went back to the words. He had a voice forming in his head already, for ‘Him’. He was intrigued, wondering where she was taking him, where they were going together; on what sort of journey; to what kind of places. Wherever it was, he felt he had been there before. However it was, he was already signed on for the voyage.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I see a woman may be made a fool, hath she not a spirit to resist.”   
>  The Taming of the Shrew, William Shakespeare   
> She is funny, clever, lovely, gorgeous, sexy as-. Nothing else matters does it?  
> (From ‘Scenes’ by Martha East)
> 
> Martha is busy baking. Across North London, her play has unsettled Tom, but he can't work out why.

## PRESENT DAY

“Fuck!”

A large slick of chocolate batter had flicked from the mixer paddle and landed on the floor, but also partially on Martha’s foot. She reached for the kitchen roll and crouched down to clean the mess off the tiles and then wiped herself. She took off the flip-flop she was wearing and ran it under the tap.

“Why do I always end up with so much mess?” she muttered as she surveyed the wreckage of her kitchen. She was an enthusiastic but sporadic baker, occasionally allowing herself to be gripped by the fever and work for hours to fill her freezer and cake tins with goodies. Her colleagues were usually the beneficiaries, but this time she had a specific recipient in mind for the fruits of her labours. She found a silicone spatula and carefully poured and scraped the dark mixture into the waiting tin, and transferred it to the oven. It lined up next to the already browning lemon-drizzle and a couple of victoria sandwiches.

“Chocolate and orange loaf: right up his alley.”

She licked her finger, savouring the delicious rich chocolate and citrus flavours. Cooking was her one practical skill, but tidiness was not part of the equation. Anyone arriving in the room then would have been hard pressed to say which was in more of a mess: the kitchen or the cook. There was flour and icing sugar on the floor; splatters of cake mixture on the worktops and the hob; the detritus from lemon and orange squeezing and zesting on the chopping board; a heap of discarded eggshells by the overflowing sink.

And in the centre of it all, covered similarly in all the ingredients she had used so far stood Martha East: fearsomely talented actor/director/playwright. In one flip-flop, thanks to the earlier incident, her pink cropped jeans dusted with flour and a few chocolate smears; her loose white linen shirt also stained, the sleeves partly rolled up but coming down; glasses covered in a sheen of flour, sugar and spray from the Kenwood; her cropped strawberry-blonde hair swept away from her face and miraculously untainted – so far, at least.

She baked when she was nervous. She had gained a reputation for plying cast-mates with cakes, and of providing a feast for her friends and colleagues at first rehearsals and table-reads. But there was no artifice, no ulterior motive or attempt to endear herself to anyone in these acts. The mountain of goodies was merely the result of her anxiety. And so it was today: she fretted and worried how Tom was taking to the script, so she baked him a cake. Several cakes.

She knew it had reached him: she had confirmed it with the courier company. She checked her phone, safely on a shelf away from the carnage, but still nothing.

“He hates it.”

She knew that was less likely to be the problem than something else – something she barely admitted to herself.

The play was pretty good, she knew that much. Patricia, a producer she had worked with many times before had practically bitten her hand off when she submitted it. It had been confirmed, and it was Pat who had said it, casually to her over coffee:

“What about Tom Hiddleston for ‘ _Him’_?”

That had almost made Martha gasp. Uncanny, especially since Pat knew them both, if only peripherally. She had worked with both of them on separate productions in a long career in BBC Radio Drama, and, as producer, she had the right to make casting suggestions. Martha had nodded sagely and said she’d send it to him, later congratulating herself on how calm she had appeared on the surface.

Now, standing in her ruin of a kitchen, watching the minute-minder tick round and smelling the sweet lemon of the drizzle cake rising from the oven beside her, she thought she had made a colossal error.

She had written the play over a year earlier, when on a solitary holiday on the Côte d’Azur. She had stayed on down there after Cannes, using the time to cleanse herself. She would never get used to all that: the schmoozing and the false flattery. The pointless attempts to explain your work to people only interested in how much money it could make them… she hated it all, she loathed them. She had bathed in the Med every morning to wash away the taint of capitalism and then, as the day waxed on she would retire to the cool of her villa to pound the keyboard until hunger drove her to think about dinner.

This was different from the other plays she had written. There was no agonising over the tiniest detail, no long pauses searching for the next step. On the contrary, it had poured out of her, consuming her until it was done. If she wasn’t actively writing she was thinking about it, re-working it in her head, drowning in the atmosphere of it. It was like a three-week long convulsion. Once it was done, the last ‘i’ dotted and ‘t’ crossed, she had saved the file, printed off one copy and put it in her desk once she returned to London. And there it had stayed. She had no intention to do anything with it, until she saw those pictures.

*****

## FEBRUARY 2007

The rehearsal space was cramped, grubby and freezing. Grumbling voices echoed off the bare and peeling walls and bounced around on the tatty floor and mismatched, uncomfortable-looking furniture.

‘Come on, boys and girls!’ The director was clapping his hands. Like everyone else, he still wore his coat and scarf. ‘Let’s get started.’

Huddles of varying sizes dotted the room. Small groups of old friends and acquaintances were catching up on news. Here and there, pairs of older cast-members were comparing baby photos: children, grandchildren; and a few people were introducing themselves to strangers. Young people spoke loudly about work and life, some slapping each other on the back, others kissing ostentatiously. This was now her world, the one she always wanted to be in.

She looked around. She knew a few people, recognised others.Some of them she liked, some others she felt she would never understand.  A low voice rumbled by her ear.

‘What’s brown and sticky?’

Martha turned and regarded her inquisitor. It was the gorgeous skinny beanpole she had spotted as she came in. He looked a bit familiar, but she didn’t know his name.

‘Sorry?’

He was grinning madly, brightening the winter-pale room with his gleaming smile. Clear eyes the colour of a winter sky set off a handsomely boyish face crowned by Austenesque blond curls.

‘Come on… _What’s brown and sticky_?’ he repeated, only mildly impatiently, eyebrows raised, his smile unwavering.

She struggled to think beyond the obvious. She assumed this was a joke of some kind, and jokes weren’t really her thing. Eventually she shrugged.

‘A stick!’ he declared, triumphantly. She smiled, but did not laugh. Undaunted, he extended his hand. “I’m Tom. Tom Hiddleston. _Touchstone_.’

_Oh great_ , she thought. She gritted her teeth.   _Of course I got theposh-boy RADA joker…_   _Interesting casting, though_.

‘Martha East. _Audrey_.’ His long fingers drowned her hand as they shook on it. _A genuine joker,_ she thought. She decided to play nicely – for now.

She did a quick survey of the assembly. She saw a few fellow plebs, but was beginning to regret her choice of tatty sweater and jeans. Not that anyone was dressed to the nines, but her studied scruffiness actually made her stand out against the stylishly casual cashmere and brushed cotton of the others. Only the posh-boy comedian was as badly dressed as her. His clashing ensemble of camouflage jacket and trackies jarred in the company of all but her.

Maybe that’s why he had spoken to her: he’d recognised a fellow in the style disaster area.

Martha had leapt at the chance to audition for _As You Like It._ Pleased to get any work at all, she had taken up the offer, even though the role was small and the pay likewise miniscule. Something was better than nothing, and it would be great experience. Shakespeare is always worth doing. Parts were hard to come by, even now, five years after she had cast off into the harsh waters of the profession. She’d done the odd little TV thing – prostitutes in cop shows, patients in _Casualty,_ the usual. A hundred ads for god-knows-what (we need a friendly, comforting, _working-class_ voice for this one, dear), and plenty of small productions at Edinburgh and around the country, hoping for the breakthrough that was yet to happen.

When she failed to get a role, or when the money ran out, she worked in pubs and restaurants, even had a flexible arrangement with a home caring agency. Wiping old ladies’ bums was better than starving. And afterwards, however tired, she went home and wrote; that was her first love, her ultimate goal. It was always hand-to-mouth, scraping along… So this was a real treat – ten solid weeks of work (two of rehearsal, eight on the road), with food and accommodation provided on tour, albeit pretty basic. Anything that meant she could avoid another excruciating conversation with her dad about why, with a degree, she couldn’t get a ‘real’ job…

In the breaks she heard them, the privileged ones, the old pals from RADA and LAMDA, comparing notes. She kept quiet unless challenged, not because she was ashamed of her English and Drama BA (she got a first, after all), or of her university (a good if undistinguished plate-glass), but to avoid the potential condescending nods and exchanged looks of amusement. She knew they had worked too, but life seemed so much easier for them. Some words, some names on your CV still opened doors. In her career, nothing was unearned, and that mattered to her. But that didn’t mean that the looks didn’t hurt.

She looked over at Tom as he introduced himself to the others. She might be misjudging him. She’d know soon enough. Shakespeare sorted the wheat from the chaff, and there wasn’t any room for passengers in a company like this. Stiffening her back, she made her way to the nearest group, already bristling.

 

*****

## PRESENT DAY

The rain had stopped, but Tom only dimly registered the fact. He liked the sound: it suited the day. His brain, already tuned to the times he and Martha had worked together, took him back to the chilly morning they had shared at Chatsworth, in the folly up the hill, trying to act above the noise of the Derbyshire summer weather. His second tea was finished, and although he wanted another, he was too gripped by the script to move. He turned the page greedily.

An hour later he put down his mug – his fourth tea of the morning – and sat staring at the paper pages in his lap. He was unsettled. His stomach was tight with…was it excitement? It felt less like that than like anger, distress almost. He considered this for a moment and then he did what he often did when he needed to think: he put on his running gear and headed out.

By the time he returned to the house he was hot, sweaty and no nearer to peace of mind. His phone was glowing too, full of missed calls and messages he was ignoring. He poured himself a long glass of cold water and drank it standing in his kitchen, the sweat still making trails down his neck and settling in the hollow above his sternum. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, put the glass down and went to shower and change into dry clothes. Once he had made his body comfortable, and still trying to get a grip on what was going on, he opened his email and searched for every message he had ever had from Martha. By the time he had read them all it was dark, he was hungry and he had not found what he was looking for.

*****

The next morning was dry but chilly, as if summer had visited but decided to move on, leaving London in a holding pattern until autumn arrived. In their respective houses, Tom and Martha were trying to get going for the day after disturbed nights.

She had lain awake until the early hours because he had not contacted her. Not so much as a simple text. She tossed and turned, thumped the pillows, rucked the sheets and ran through a million scenarios in her head: _he hates it; he’s insulted; he’s had a better offer; he’s angry; he’s upset with me._ None of these comforted her, and after checking her phone once more to no avail and sending a text to a friend ( _just to double-check it was actually working_ ), she got out of bed and made for the bathroom.

Tom had slept fitfully too, his rest broken by troubling dreams and half-remembered conversations, looks, moments in the past eight years that bothered him. The script had started an avalanche of memories but also of unease. Martha had a way of doing that: he had seen her play _Sunday Afternoons with Dad_ at the Duchess Theatre a couple of years earlier _._ She captured the lack of communication between parent and child so well, but had also portrayed the deep love that was unhindered by it so movingly that he had left the stalls in tears.

But this was different. This felt more intimate; like something private, something _between them_. Was that his imagination? She had kept him permanently on the back foot, off-balance, as long as he had known her. Was this just another, subtler way of doing that? How had she been able to tap into those feelings - those fears - the ones he had buried so deep even he didn’t know exactly what they were anymore?

_How dare she?_

He couldn’t put it off any longer. She would be wondering why he hadn’t been in touch, and the longer he left it the harsher the tongue-lashing would be. He picked up his phone and invited her for coffee later.

Her response was immediate.

**< I’ll bring cake> **

He smiled.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart concealing it will break”   
> The Taming of the Shrew, William Shakespeare
> 
> I don’t get it… It must be me.[…] I don’t fit.  
> (From ‘Scenes’ by Martha East)
> 
> Martha arrives, cakes in hand, and Tom wants to know what she's up to.

## AUGUST 2010

Edinburgh was nuts at this time of year, but then she knew that. She was hardly a Festival virgin, having been there first as a student and most years since with various productions, large and small. She was particularly tense this time because she was there with her new play, _House of Lies,_ and this was a very public stage on which to put herself. It was only her second outing, and if it didn’t go well it would be a bad place to stumble.

 She dodged the handers-out of leaflets, the desperate performers trying to drum up an audience for their one-person show in a rickshaw or the stand-up at midnight hoping to avoid a single-figure attendance again. Martha was a woman on a mission that morning: she had a lunchtime ‘date’ with Tom in an hour at Frederick’s Coffee Shop, and she really wanted to find a new shirt, or perhaps a dress first. She turned the corner near Waverley Station and the sun kissed her face. It was welcome. As usual for Scotland, August was not exactly tropical, and any day without rain was a blessing. The streets were crowded and she wove her way along the wide pavement between the foreign tourists, festivalgoers, bored locals and the occasional _Princes Street Highlander_.

In truth, the shopping expedition was all part of her attempts to distract herself. She was nervous about the play, although so far it was going well and the reviews had been favourable, but it was something else that was on her mind this day. She was unreasonably nervous about seeing Tom again. It had been well over a year since their paths had last crossed. They had been in touch by phone and email plenty, but this was the first chance they had found to actually meet.

Unfortunately, by the time she was pushing open the door to the welcoming aroma of roasting coffee and freshly baked quiche, Martha was a seething ball of rage. She had not succeeded in her search for a new blouse. Instead she had walked in and out of stores completely immersed in her own mad thinking: why was she so anxious about seeing him, what if he hated the play, would he be honest to her about that, why hadn’t they found the time to see each other in more than a year, would he have news for her, did he have any secrets, would he still like her? Shehad built up such a head of steam in her self-loathing and anxiety that poor Tom was treated to the full blast of her wrath. Nothing he said was right; she finished his sentences and proceeded to tell him why he was wrong, she disagreed with every opinion he put forward, be it about the new _Hamlet_ that was part of the Festival or how to brew tea correctly. In the end he gave up trying to argue because she would not budge an inch on anything and he didn’t want to waste the precious time with her on conflict. Not that she allowed his silent acquiescence to divert or appease her.

“People like you, I mean not like YOU, but your lot, you know, you’re part of the problem. We’ve got half of Eton and Oxford running the bloody country and no doubt planning how to dismantle the public services.” Tom tried to interject but she hardly drew breath for several minutes. “You wait, the Arts will be for it next. The BBC will be under the cosh, guarantee you, and meanwhile they’ll be selling the family silver to help their mates and doing sweet FA about the bankers that got us in this fucking mess.” She paused, regarding him with such venom that he almost flinched. “Now, the question is Tom, what are we going to do about it? Because, Tom, you know, sitting there on the sidelines and simply watching is unacceptable. It’s not an option; I won’t let you remain passive about this.”

Tom looked around as if hoping for help, but none was forthcoming. All the other people in the café were immersed in their own conversations. Wisely.

“We thought Blair and Brown were bad, but you wait and see. It’ll be poor-bashing, immigrant-hating _Daily Mail_ -led policies all the way…”

After a certain point, he just sat and watched her seethe and rant. Her green eyes flashed with righteous anger and the rose in her cheeks glowed as she raged. She was beautiful when she was angry. She was the scariest, sexiest, most interesting woman he knew. A unique and extraordinary force of nature. And despite the indomitable passion, the bossiness, the stubbornness, he saw a Martha that felt so strongly and deeply that her feelings took her over. In another life, in another time, perhaps things might have happened between them. He didn’t think she was keen, though. She always took the piss, made it clear she wanted to be friends. And anyway, this was not the time for such things. He had to keep taking these great opportunities, keep trying new things, keep building his career.

Martha’s real fury towards the new coalition was not the reason why she was berating Tom. She was lashing out because she was so angry with herself for feeling the way she did with him. Vulnerable. For wanting to impress him, for caring what he thought; for secretly valuing his opinion above all others; for being so desperate for his approval while fearing rejection that she attacked first. By the time they left the café, she was wondering if she had scared him into avoiding her for another year, and she wondered if he was stillinterested in seeing her show. The only person she wanted to please, she was pushing away.

Later that afternoon, sitting in her dressing room, Martha texted him to apologise. She did not attempt to explain, just admitted she had been grossly unfair to him, that her nerves about the production got the best of her, and that she truly hoped he would come to see the play, nonetheless.

He did come, he loved it and he told her. He never found out why she was so angry that day.

 

****

## PRESENT DAY

Martha’s red and white Mini Cooper was idling at the kerb. She was going to get out and press the intercom button in a moment. She was. As soon as she was ready. Several minutes passed. A few people walked by and stared at her. She was trying to calm down, to get her pulse to slow a bit. Not because she was nervous, but because she was angry.

Not with Tom. She was furious with herself because she was being a total fucking hypocrite.

_Here you are, self-proclaimed feminist, campaigner against privilege and elitism, career woman and working-class hero. And what are you doing? Sitting in your car outside the gate of a man you want desperately to approve of you and your work. An Eton-and-Cambridge-educated posh boy who is the living manifestation of everything you claim to abhor. And you don’t even care about any of that, do you? Because you just want him to love-_

Getting a grip, pushing that last thought away sharply, she opened her door, got out and stepped over to the panel.

“It’s me,” was her brusque response to his call, and the gates swung open to let the peasant into the castle. She felt sick now. She parked her car in the visitor spaces and picked up her bag, her laptop and the carrier full of foil-wrapped goodies she had lovingly prepared for his majesty the day before. Now guilt was piling onto all the other reasons for her self-loathing. She was being unfair to Tom. He might come from a well-off family and have had the sort of educational opportunities afforded the few, but he was not a snob, not elitist and the kindest, most generous person she knew.

What really bothered her was not what he represented. What bothered her was that, even after all these years and everything that had happened, or more to the point, _not_ _happened_ between them, she could not let it go. Such idiocy was unbecoming.

When she reached his porch, the door swung open and she was wrapped in two long arms. His breath brushed her ear as he kissed her cheek and welcomed her. Did she detect a little stiffness? They exchanged pleasantries, half genuinely, half mechanically, while he served the coffee and she cut the cake. His house was like Tom: beautiful, inviting. 

Perhaps he had not liked ‘ _Him’_ all that much…

“I really like it.”

Tom was back in his beloved leather wingback, a coffee in his hand and slices of two sorts of cake on a plate balanced on his leg. He took a bite from the chocolate and orange loaf and his eyelids rolled shut with pleasure at the taste of it.

“The cake or the play?” Martha mumbled from around a mouthful of sponge. She had sandwiched the two victorias with _caramel buerre salé_ and some sharp apricot conserve her aunt made. Her own invention, the result of a midnight baking session with no raspberry jam or cream in the house, she had made it a speciality. Unable to choose, she had brought all three options with her.

“Both, actually. But I meant the play, darling. It’s perfect.”

Martha snorted derisively. “Oh I doubt that, Thomas!”

He shook his head. “OK, perhaps not _totally_ perfect, but it is fucking good.”

They ate in silence for a while, Tom making little noises of satisfaction every time he took a bite. He wondered why she hadn’t brought him cakes more often over the years; he was not aware she was an ‘emotional baker’. When he had wiped every crumb, every last sticky smear from his plate and licked his fingers thoroughly, he set it and his mug aside and picked up the script.

“I particularly like the way you’ve woven the inner voices through. The way what they actually say to each other is so different from what they are thinking, feeling. It feels very authentic.”

She couldn’t help a little smile. “Yeah, well, we’re all a bit hypocritical, aren’t we? The world would grind to a halt if people said exactly what they thought _all_ the time.”

He returned her steady gaze for a moment. Irritation pricked at the back of his neck. She was baiting him again. But why? Was this whole thing an exercise in winding him up?

“You’re right there. I like too the way we get inside the characters very quickly. And the way you hint that there is even more, deeper down, that they don’t even say to themselves.” He leaned forward, making the space between them smaller and causing a tension in the room. “There is more, isn’t there? More unsaid stuff?” His eyes were fixed on hers, his expression neutral but Martha knew the question was loaded.

“Well, you’re the actor. If you think so, and you think you can convey that…” She spread her hands.

Tom put the script down and stood up, walking across the room to the doors that led out to his small courtyard garden. Martha watched him move, the grace she had admired for so long unchanging. He looked bloody good right now. He’d built up some muscle to play Le Carré’s ex-soldier, and the sun had turned his skin to honey. She wanted to taste it, to taste him, to touch him. She opened her eyes sharply, desperate to recover from what felt like free-fall.

Tom turned back to face her, his long lean body silhouetted against the grey light. “Some of the scenes, they seem, they feel a bit… _familiar_.”

_Oh fuck._ _Here we go._  She tried to give him a feeble smile butshe knew it was hopeless. Good actor or not, she was a rubbish liar. Tom laughed that odd, sniggering laugh of his.

“ _Very_ convincing, darling. So, if this whole thing is about you and me, why do it like this?”


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And do as adversaries do in law./Strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends”  
> William Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew
> 
> It’s now or never, she won’t give you any more chances. She’s too smart for that.  
> (From ‘Scenes’ by Martha East)

## PRESENT DAY

“I can see why you bought this place, Tom,” she said, looking up and around her at the double-height ceiling, ‘you need this much head room.”

Tom was standing, hands on hips, glaring. “This is not about my ego, Martha.” He paused, trying to marshal his thoughts. She wasn’t going to admit anything, not if he judged her correctly, but he wanted her to know he wasn’t fooled. “I simply want to know why you couldn’t have said any of this to my face.”

“You really think this is all about you, Thomas? Dear god, it’s worse than I thought.” She laughed theatrically. “Then, I suppose that over a million Twitter followers and swooning girls at Comicon are bound to have some effect, even on a saint like you.”

He walked back and sat down again, still looking at her steadily, daring her to come clean about it. She shuffled uncomfortably on the sofa, becoming fascinated by the pattern on the mug she was using. Eventually she felt she should mount some kind of defence.

“Oh, it’s true that I might have been inspired by some events in my life, but all writers are. It doesn’t mean that it’s _about_ my own life.” Martha noted with bittersweet pleasure that her hunches about his feelings must be - at least - close to the mark for him to be so very agitated. “I’m always mining my memories and experiences: you know that.” She paused, debating. “And I’m not a mind reader, am I? It’s all fantasy, darling, of course it is. All of it.”

Tom didn’t believe a word of that. He wanted to challenge her about it, but not that day. He felt too unsure of himself.  Taking Martha on was never easy, and it was clear she was closing off, on this subject at least. He would need to be on top form for that task, and he was nowhere near that. The man in the play had stirred things up in him. He had the uneasy feeling that Martha knew his heart better than he did, and that was taking some coming to terms with. So the two stubborn people stayed as they were, facing each other down before they both accepted that the other wasn’t going to be honest about what was happening.

Martha saw his conflicting thoughts, and felt her own. How could she explain to him what he meant to her? How could she answer his ‘why’? She certainly had no intention of telling him that the only reason – _the ONLY reason_ – they were sitting here talking about this was thatduring a fit of jealousy she had dug the script out of the drawer and mailed it to BBC Radio Drama. That her motivations where not her coming to terms with her feelings towards him, her bravery to face her own insecurities; nota sign of her being honest with herself and him. Oh no. It was jealousy, pure and simple.  

_Her_ Tom would nothave allowed himself to be papped with that person on his arm a few weeks ago. _Her_ Tom would never play public hysterics. _Her_ Tom, who was not hers.It was improbable that the play would ever have seen the light of day without that hour of impotent fury which made her want, _need_ to do _something_. And once she had seen the thing leave her outbox she had regretted it, but not totally. She had known that there was no going back, that Pat and her colleagues would be sure to commission it, because it was good. It was honest, unlike her.  

_And at least she wouldn’t go to her grave not knowing._

“So, will you do it? I need to know now, Tom. The studio’s booked for the week after next. If you don’t want it I’m going to have-“

“I’ll do it.”

“Oh that’s a relief. It would be hard to find someone else at such short notice.” She could not help the somewhat dismissive remark, knowing very well thatwithout him she’d have simply cancelled and paid the penalty.

Tom wondered why she had left it so late to contact him, but he kept that question to himself. “Well, I’ve got a few weeks free and you know, I like to do a bit of radio now and then. How long should I block out?”

“I should think we can get it down in a day, with a following wind. But I’ve booked two in the studio, to be safe.”

Seeing to the administrative side of the matter seemed to break the tension. They spoke about mutual friends and people in the business. He talked about Morocco and Palma, she mentioned a potential new project in the States, and they enjoyed a second cup of coffee together. Soon it was time for Martha to leave, and as she gathered her things she told Tom she had been booked to do some readings at a late-night concert that evening, part of the Prom season.

“It’s poetry and jazz: Eliot.” She saw his face light up. “Wanna come? I have some tickets.”

 “I’d love to. How many extras do you have?”

_Don’t be cruel, Tom. Don’t bring HER_

“A few…”

“Could I bring my mum?”

 

## TWO WEEKS LATER

The rehearsal was going well; too well, Martha felt. Tom was being his usual charming and professional self: he had made the assistants swoon, male and female, and had Pat eating out of his hand after precisely thirty seconds. She was a bag of nerves, but that was normal when she was directing. And as was usual for her, she was snappy and tense, which made Tom seem even sweeter to everyone else.

“Can we run through that section again, please Tom? I’m not sure I’m completely happy with all of it.”

Tom looked at his script. He couldn’t quite see Martha in the mixing booth, but her voice was loud and clear in his cans. He loved the sound of it. He had downloaded some of her plays and kept them. They were all so good, so sharp and perceptive, often funny, always moving. But more than that he relished the way the timbre of her speaking voice resonated, even when she was angry (perhaps especially then). He tried to figure out what she might want him to change, and once again, the words made the muscles in his abdomen tighten. It was his last monologue in the first scene:

_“Where is she now? Not that it matters. You’re not ready, she’s too clever to waste herself on you, there’s plenty of time for that stuff later on and anyway, who needs it? It never lasts, ‘love’, does it? I mean, it’s not like she’s the only girl in the world and there’ll be another one along in a minute and who the hell am I kidding? (long pause. Audible breathing) Just wait. See how you feel in a few weeks. If it’s going to happen, it will, right? No need to rush… Maybe, by then, you’ll know what you want.”_

Martha was in directorial mode: calm, efficient, commanding – on the surface, at least. She was sitting at the back of the booth while Tom was alone with the mike in the studio itself, headphones on. He looked stunning, of course, in a simple t-shirt and jeans. His tan was fading but the skin on his neck still glowed honey-warm and she wanted to smell it so badly she ached. She was struggling to cope. His voice, those words.

Because, of course, those were words she had written for him. Words she had put into his mouth, and which were meant only for him. The ideas, the feelings that had poured out of her the summer before and insisted on being written down. They were the thoughts she had attributed to him after eight years of observation. A combination of that and the writer’s and actor’s desire to understand, to analyse, to pick apart… She needed to understand him. She thought she knew now what had held her back, made her second guess him constantly, made her come out fighting, all guns blazing on those days when all she really wanted to do was be still and silent in his arms.

After a light lunch that Martha barely picked at, they were back at work and ready to start recording. Tom was loose and relaxed, having set aside his anxiety and gone into the ‘zone’. Martha was distracted. She was used to acting and directing at the same time, and this should have been a piece of cake, with only Tom and the sound-effect technician to wrangle. But her nerves were jangling: it felt vital to get every syllable precisely correct. Every nuance had to be perfectly shaded, and when they were together, speaking into their mikes in the same room it was hard to concentrate.

They worked through the dialogue scenes in chronological order, charting the couple’s progress from first meeting through tentative dating to abortive night of passion. The more they did, the better it got and Martha was very pleased with it all. She wanted the emotion to come across to the listener, so she insisted they stop and record their monologues next, saving the final joint scene until last.

She did hers first, while Tom had a break. All was going well, but the first section of the second scene made her choke up and she stumbled:

_“So this IS a date. Right, reset again. I knew it. Well, I hoped it, thought so, he never seems to, well, he’s so… casual all the time… But then, why the pretence? I don’t get it… It must be me._ _We are not equal.  I don’t fit.”_

“Sorry!” she called to the engineer, and gathering herself she questioned why that had set her off. Then she remembered she had been crying – sobbing – when she wrote that scene, because it brought back all the feelings she had throughout that shoot at Chatsworth, the one for that bloody bodice-ripper. How the faint, childish hopes she had harboured had been dashed. He was kind, friendly and charming – still was – but transparently n _ot interested_.

She got a grip and salvaged part of the take, finishing the section and moving on. The next big obstacle was the near-miss scene. She had survived the two-hander, but the real meat was in the monologues. Martha gave silent thanks that Tom was out of the room.

_“It’s OK, I know. I understand. I’m not the one, I hoped I could be but not for the likes of you, right? Better to stop before things get too messy. Girls like me, they do things like getting themselves… yeah, no need for any trouble, I understand.”_

But the hardest part was next:

_“What did I do wrong really? Was it just that he’s having second thoughts, or was it something I did, said? Do I smell funny? I look OK, NORMAL. I really thought that tonight we would finally… (cries softly) He’s the one. I might not be, but he is. (cries more loudly)”_

As she paused afterwards to say, “cut” quietly, a ripple of applause came through her headphones. She heard Tom’s deep baritone say “Brava” and the tears, the real bitter tears she had shed flowed again more freely. She moved on, holding herself together but only just when she reached the final monologue section:

_“Say it. Say it now, stupid. What have you got to lose that you haven’t already lost? Just because he can’t get himself sorted… RIGHT, woman. Go for it NOW.”_

She stayed still and silent for a long time after the last word. Was he there still, was he listening? She felt numb now, and when the recording engineer coughed politely she realised several minutes had passed while she stared blindly at her script. The professional took over and somehow she got up and returned to the booth, able to review the takes in a state of relative tranquillity.

Tom was watching her closely from his seat in the corner of the mixing booth. He knew her well enough to see that there was less artifice in her performance than the casual observer might suspect. He replayed the events of that night – their near miss – in his head. He knew he had hurt her when he left, and because she had not allowed him to explain, he never dared to broach the subject. So it sat there, between them, the proverbial elephant. He was in no doubt now that the play was about them. It portrayed her feelings for him, and was also her attempt to interpret his for her.

_The scary thing was how bloody accurate it was._

Tom aced his monologues, as she had known he would. That was why Pat had suggested him. He was so fucking good. What she couldn’t see was that he was hiding the real pain and emotion he was feeling by subtly overdoing it in the more intense moments:

_“You stupid, STUPID TWAT! IDIOT, IDIOT, BLUNDERING FOOL, YOU MESSED IT UP LIKE YOU ALWAYS DO AND NOW SHE’S HURT. DRANK TOO MUCH LIKE THE DOPE YOU ARE! FINALLY BLOWN IT FOR GOOD!”_

Martha watched, gave a few notes, asked for the occasional retake, but rarely. He was fluent, believable, he inhabited the character, but then, why wouldn’t he? He _was_ ‘ _Him’,_ after all. She watched from the back of the booth again, afraid to meet his eye. It had been apparent all day that Tom understood what was going on. She was feeling scared, because it was a risk. A calculated one, and really the only card she had to play.

After tea and Martha’s chocolate fudge cupcakes (she had slept little and cooked up a storm overnight), the time had come for the final scene. This was the only one not taken from ‘real life’. Tom had loved it when he read it on that rainy day two weeks ago, it had cheered him because it represented hope to him: Martha’s hope.

They assembled in the recording studio: Martha and Tom at their mikes, the engineer in the booth poised over the desk. They lifted their scripts and began.

 

 

** SCENE FIVE **

Three years later, a hotel bar in Manchester

SFX…………………………………………… MUSIC: Elgar Cello Concerto 1stMovt (conc)

SFX………………………………………….. Conversation, clinking of glasses, scraping of chairs

 

HIM                       Hey! How are you? It’s been…

**HER                       ...ages, yes! I’m fine. You look great.**

HIM                       So do you.

_HIS Inner Voice          Dear GOD she looks AMAZING. And what did you do exactly? How did you lose her? By being an effing idiot. By not getting it, as usual._

**_HER Inner Voice          He’s just the same. So unfair, so unfair. No ring… why did you look, you idiot? Means nothing, blokes like him don’t get left. He’s taken. Probably was all along. Just wanted a bit of rough, yeah, that’s it. Never meant anything to him, DARLING._ **

HIM                       So, what are you up to these days? Same place?

**HER                       Yes, slowly climbing the greasy pole, you know. Heading for the glass ceiling… (feeble laugh)**

HIM                       Are you travelling much? Not married… or anything?

**_HER IV                    What? Why..? Huh?_ **

**HER                       No, not me! Not the marrying sort, me…(pauses) What about you?**

HIM                       No, no, no… Still, you know.(coughs)

SFX……………………………………………………  Glasses clinking, shuffling of bums on stools

HIM                       I always hoped we’d-

(Simultaneously)

**HER**                        I thought-

_HIS IV                    Oh brilliant! So I messed it up and she did want it but could I see that, could I act on it? OH NO, not mister mess-it-up-because–he’s-an-effing-idiot! Oh god, she is still the same, those eyes, I need to see those eyes every day…_

**_HER IV                    Say it. Say it now, stupid. What have you got to lose that you haven’t already lost? Just because he can’t get himself sorted… RIGHT, woman. Go for it NOW._ **

**HER                       You know,** **time passes and some things just feel the same.** **We still could. If we are both, you know… We could try again. (pauses, deep breath) If you want to.**

HIM (immediately)         I DO! That is, I want to. I always did. I never stopped.I’m sorry, I was stupid, I was a child who didn’t know what mattered most, what I was wasting. I felt so… unclear. (pause). (softly) Now I know.

 

“Cut.”

There was a whistle from the engineer, and a quiet “Yes” from Pat, who had slipped into the booth after they began to set up. But neither sound reached the brains of the two actors, who stood still and silent, mesmerised by each other.


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Here let us breathe and haply institute/ A course of learning and ingenious studies”  
> The Taming of the Shrew, William Shakespeare
> 
> “And what did you do exactly? How did you lose her? By being an effing idiot. By not getting it, as usual.”  
> (From ‘Scenes’ by Martha East)
> 
> Time to talk...

## JULY 2009

“You make me sick, Hiddleston.”

Tom turned round to see what could have caused this outburst from his co-star. She was standing behind the director, looking at a monitor. Her face was split by a grimace.

“What have I done now?” He sighed. He couldn’t seem to do anything right today.

“It’s indecent to look that good in a costume, you bastard.” Martha wriggled inside the confines of her corset. She could hardly breathe and felt she looked like a badly wrapped present in this dress. The colour didn’t flatter and apart from the enforced good posture she loathed the entire experience.

_Now, that was a lie._

Tom gazed steadily at her. He knew she liked to tease him, she had done that from the first day they met, but he suspected this was more to do with the upcoming scenes they had together. He was looking forward to them; he had enjoyed the horse riding, the dancing, the running and jumping he’d already been called upon to do, but what he really liked was the character stuff, the intense one-on-ones that the young lovers were to have. No doubt the leg pulling was Martha’s way of handling the pressure.

“What did that casting director say to you? That you’ve got a ‘period face’? More like a period arse.” The crew collapsed in hysterical laughter.

Tom smiled good-naturedly. He’d seen her do it before. She wasn’t one of those actors who stayed in character, although she wasn’t above turning it on mid-sentence if there was a chance for a joke or a teasing put-down. But this time she seemed pretty tense, and he certainly knew he was. The relationship between their characters was the pivot on which the entire plot hinged, and these scenes in particular drove the story, so they had to be good. They had to get them right.

In rehearsal, she had found it hard not to corpse whenever they looked into each other’s eyes, and he knew that it was going to be awkward. Sex scenes aren’t exactly much fun on set (not that he’d done any so far), but somehow these chaste but powerful romances of the early 19thcentury felt harder to handle.

_Especially if you really liked the other party._

The set up was ready, and, noses powdered and hair fixed, the two of them made their way under umbrellas into the folly where Tom was declare his undying love to Martha. It was raining quite hard and it looked as if they would have to redub the dialogue later. The trees around them shook with the weight of water pounding down, and a mist was rising from the lake, making it almost impossible to see the stately home beyond.

“Now you’ve got your hourly joke out of your system, tell me: are you OK, Mar?” He was concerned: her face was paler than usual and her mouth was a tight line.

She nodded brusquely and then the director shouted “action!” above the hammering raindrops.

Tom reached for her hand and felt electricity shoot up his arm, momentarily throwing him. He recovered enough to say his line, but not before their eyes had locked and he saw Martha swallow quickly.

“My dearest, I must confess my affections are quite overwhelming. Will you do me the honour,” he continued, pulling her a little closer, one eye on the column behind her so they hit their mark, “of becoming my betrothed?”

Martha was lost. She had stopped breathing when their hands touched and now she was swimming in Tom’s blue eyes and she had absolutely no idea what she was supposed to say or do. It wasn’t just nerves. She had been anxious about the scenes, but not because of the importance of them to the production. She had feared that such intense closeness would force her to give herself away.

She could laugh it off – literally – in rehearsal. When she felt the sensation rise in her chest, and failed to push it back down, she stepped out of its path by pretending to laugh. She was a good actress: everyone had been convinced she was out of control. But now there was nowhere to hide: she had to keep looking at him, she had to say her lines and see his beautiful face crumple.

“I am afraid, Mister Hayward, that I must decline your kind offer.’ She pulled her hand from his, feeling his grip release more reluctantly than before, and turned away. She took a step to the edge of the shelter to look at the lake. She could feel the faint spray rise against her cheek and hoped it would disguise the tears that had begun to trickle down.

She heard Tom move behind her. He was to take a step towards her, then leave in humiliation. They were acting, and he was so very good, but she felt, irrationally, as if she had really hurt him. And that was the last thing she wanted to do.

Tom walked stiffly down the white steps and into the rain, hoping to hear “cut!” before he was completely soaked. The director relented and he shot back into the shelter of the mock Greek temple, looking expectantly at the crew. A hair and make up assistant handed him a towel for his fluffy curls and attempted to repair his face.

Martha remained where she was, her eyes closed as she tried to corral her emotions back to where they should be. She _had_ to be professional, for goodness’ sake!

“Looks pretty good, but let’s do a couple more for luck.” The director had to bawl above the weather.

“Can I just check you, love?” Maureen the make up lady was gently pulling on Martha’s arm. She turned and was met with a gasp. “Oh dear, you’re all wet. Bloody rain.” She looked over to Andrew, the – _fortunately_ – unflappable AD. “I’m afraid I need my other bag. The rain has got to her. Look.”

Tom chuckled quietly behind her, and Martha took a playful swing at him. “Shut yer face, stupid perfect features! Why did you use up all the waterproof mascara on HIM, Maureen?”

The cheeky grin he’d been sporting evaporated as he saw her expression. “Oh love, I’m sorry, I didn’t- _OH RIGHT_.” She always managed to knock him off balance. Was it deliberate? Was it just her way of being, or was it aimed just at him? He puzzled at it for the hundredth time that week. _What is happening here, Mar? We never seem to be on the same page… I’m always two steps behind, or something. Is that it?_

By the time she turned around, Martha was grinning madly, happy she had diverted his attention and made the crew laugh again. The rain continued to thunder down on the roof of the little building as Maureen did what she could to repair the damage. Tom’s hair was dried and they both looked much as they had before. All too soon, they were ready for take two.

 

*****

## PRESENT DAY

The inside of Tom’s Jag was warm and comfortable. It smelled of leather and him. The luxurious surroundings jarred a little with the deliberately relaxed attire of the occupants: Tom in his t-shirt, hoodie and jeans, Martha in her yoga pants, loose t-shirt and jersey cardi. She was trying to remember the reasoning behind choosing this outfit, and had decided it had to be her determination not to conform to stereotypes. The fact that it helped them to slip unnoticed past the huddles of celebrity hunters outside Broadcasting House had nothing to do with it. _Just a convenient side effect._

Martha had sent everyone home a short while earlier. She arranged to meet Simon the engineer in two days to do the edit, and although there might be a need for the odd tweak, everyone was satisfied with what they had done that day. And the ‘talent’, as Pat called them, were in no state to do any more that evening. It was past nine now and dusk was creeping across London, making the bright lights dazzle the crowds along Tottenham Court Road.

She turned her head and looked at him, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, his hands relaxed, one on the wheel, the other loosely draped over the gear stick. He must have seen her head move out of the corner of his eye because he smiled.

“Tired?”

She shook her head. “No, actually I’m not really.”

His smile broadened, although he kept his eyes on the traffic as they edged gradually towards the junction in the distance. “Me neither.”

They were going back to her house, in a cosy terrace in Stoke Newington. He knew the way. There had been no discussion, just a simple “Let’s go home, I’ll drive you” as they left the studio. They had a great many things to talk about; the time for prevaricating and secrets was over.

Just a short while later Tom was standing a little awkwardly in her hallway as she bustled around, putting the kettle on and switching on lights. He had been there many times before, but somehow this felt different. Whereas once he might have rambled comfortably through the rooms, now he waited for her invitation like a Victorian suitor.

Because this time things _were_ different. Nothing overt had been said or done, but so much mutual understanding had been achieved already.

 Eventually Martha noticed him. ‘Stop hovering on the doormat, Thomas! Honestly! You want tea?”

The pot brewed, the cups readied and yet more cake plated, he carried the tray though to her stylish sitting room. It was eclectically furnished – some John Lewis, some IKEA, some ‘vintage’ (including an old table from her Nan’s house); some junk shop bits and pieces she had bought with early pay checks. Pictures and books were everywhere.  They sat beside each other on the pale green modern sofa and Martha poured.

“I assumed you wouldn’t want a scotch, not after…” He winced. “Well, there is some,” she nodded in the direction of her sideboard, where an impressive collection of bottles stood huddled on a tray, “if you’d like.”

Tom steadied the mild anger that bubbled up; she couldn’t resist it, even now. “No, I think not. Maybe later.” He took the mug of tea from her and leaned back. “I think we both need a clear head for the moment, don’t you?”

Martha chastised herself. That had been uncalled-for and a bit cruel, really, but the memory still hurt and she was highly vulnerable tonight. She had exposed herself to him; laid her heart open and her natural defences were on full alert. Getting a jibe in first had been her weapon of choice since childhood.

“Yes. I’m sorry, Tom. Forgive me.”

He took a deep draught of his tea and then looked at her. “I wanted to stay, you know. Very much.” He set his cup down and turned towards her, tentatively reaching for her free hand. “You never let me finish explaining. You didn’t want to talk about it, Mar.”

“I know… I didn’t want to talk… it hurt so much because I was…I suppose I was expecting it, you to leave, I mean. I didn’t think you were interested, and I thought it was just the booze and once you saw what-”

He interrupted her, wanting her to see, finally. “It _was_ the booze, yes, but only in that I wanted it to be right, and that would have made it wrong. Look at us Martha, it took a play and exposing each other through our work for us to be able to sit down and say what we truly feel. We’re not simple people, Mar.” He took a deep breath. “You are like nobody else I know. You meant too much, you _mean_ too much to me, Mar.” His hand was holding hers lightly, his thumb brushing her knuckles with gentle sweeps. She was so aware of it, of the pressure of every ridge on his fingertips, of the warm sensation as his flesh hovered over hers.

“And then you were gone.” Her voice was flat, and it cut him to the quick. She was right; once again, he had put his work first, but so had she.

“I know. And you were, too, all over, working, writing, doing the same as me: making a career.” He took her mug from her and placed it next to his. “This is who we are, or at least, who we have been. I think we need to talk tonight, both of us, about who we _want to be.”_ His hand tightened on hers and the other reached up and stroked her cheek. She leaned into his touch. Her gaze met his and held it, even as she felt herself falling again, drowning in his eyes that looked back at her so longingly.

“There is one thing I need to know now. Tom. Before we go any further.” She knew what she wanted to say, and what she wanted to do.  “Do you want me? Me, Tom? Me. Martha, as I am? Because if this is just about _me_ , and you letting me down gently, then-”

“Yes.” It just came out of him, almost too quickly. “I want you. I want- I _need_ to be with you, Martha. Yes, YOU!”

A great sigh left her, and tears welled up. His hand, still resting on her cheek, began to move subtly, the palm caressing her skin, the tips of his fingers just kissing her hair. A sweet smile broke across his face.

“Funny how things work out. That night, you left because things were not right. Well, I guess you are more thoughtful than I am, Tom. I didn’t mean for you to find out like this. I mean, I didn’t want to tell you this way. How I felt. How I feel about you. I never intended to show _Scenes_ to anyone, least of all you. It just demanded to be written. It was my own catharsis. It was never meant to see the light of day.”

“So why did you submit it then?”

_Ah. Now the difficult bit starts._

Martha braced herself. “Well, I’m not exactly proud of it, but when I saw the pictures of you and… I just got so angry; I was so jealous and so… alone.“

“I see.” His hand pulled back from her face, and she knew she had touched a nerve.

“I’m sorry, Tom. It was petty, jealous and childish, but it hurt and I suppose I was subconsciously wanting to force the issue or something.” She was looking down, ashamed and was surprised to feel his fingertips on her chin, guiding her to look at him.

“No. _I’m_ sorry about that. It was a-.” He stopped. This whole thing was at the heart of what was happening: his ‘problem’. “She was…Jeannette isnot _important_ to me, Martha. Not in the way _you_ have always been. I haven’t been fair to her, I know, and I’m being a coward about it, even now. I haven’t been in touch with her properly for three weeks. I imagine she thinks we are still together, but in fact, we have never been. Not for me. I allowed things to go on because it seemed easier than doing anything else.”

Martha looked at him, his eyes so sad. She was looking with loving eyes, eyes that saw him for who he was. A clever, kind and loving man who had become trapped in his own ways when it came to his feelings, his capacity to commit emotionally to another person, his lack of courage to be straight with a woman about what he wanted. Not that terribly different from her.

 “You’re going to have to grasp that nettle, you know. The sooner the better, because here we are, Tom.”

He grimaced. There was no avoiding it now. He had taken a risk leaving BH with Martha. Anyone could have snapped a picture and if Jeanette saw it… “Life isn’t so simple now, is it, as when we first met?”

‘No, but it was always complicated, Tom. The main difference now is that studios want you, directors talk to you, fellow actors want to work with you, and, hundreds of thousands of women want you.” She looked at his troubled face. “We need to deal with that, too. If we are going to do this, you and I.” She sighed.

“That bothers you, I can see.”

“The fame? Not really. The female attention…it does, yes. I’ve not had that sort of thing. I’m not in your league when it comes to attractiveness,” she held up a hand to stop his protests, “but I think I can cope. For you, Thomas.”

She wasn’t really sure about that. There was no hope of a slow, gradual building of a relationship. The merest hint and it would be plastered everywhere. The assumptions in the media about the women that male celebrities dated were part of a misogynistic culture she had been working hard to discredit. To become a potential victim of them was a daunting prospect but also rather excited her: it could be an opportunity. She could feel a crusade coming on…

Tom leaned back on the sofa and Martha snuggled against his chest. They stayed like that for a while, talking about their schedules for the coming months. He had a big movie to shoot in the autumn; she was preparing to write a play about the women of Auschwitz. It was harrowing work, and the emotional strain had been a factor in her vulnerability when the paparazzi pictures had knocked her off-balance.

“I have been offered a run at the National too. From December. Nothing signed yet, though.”

‘Oh yes?” This was interesting, because so had he.

“Yeah. A new thing, based on WG Sebald’s books. They offered me the narrator spot.”

Tom sat up abruptly. “They’ve offered that to _me_ , though!” He was almost shouting.

She couldn’t help smiling. Rufus had told her they had offered it to someone but that they were committed and weren’t sure they’d be available.

“Have you signed?”

He glared at her. Of course he hadn’t. He didn’t know yet if he would be finished with _Skull Island_ in time. Most likely not, but the project intrigued him, and the thought of losing it to Martha… She’d never let him forget it.

Work talk again became a welcome distraction, but this time they talked openly, about how work had, actually, made them closer together, in many ways. Two hours later they were still there, still talking. They had gone over their entire friendship, from the chill of the rehearsal room in Lambeth – “God, I was a tit that day!”, through the years when they hopped around between TV and film and the theatre – “We kept _nearly_ getting in the same things, do you remember? Only that one time, though…”- but without really tackling the big issue.

The first streaks of light were appearing in the night sky when Martha turned to him and said, ”You know, hours ago you said we needed to talk about what we want. About who we want to be. We still haven’t, have we?”

He looked at her, taking her in. Her eyes were still bright, her hair glowed in the lamplight and the cloud of freckles over her nose begged to be kissed.

“You’re right.” He paused, then grinned. “You first!”

“Cheater!” She shoved at him and he feigned injury. “Well, the truth is I am, I have most of what I have always wanted: the work, that’s been so much of my self-image, my desire to succeed, that’s what has driven me since that teacher told me not to act because I didn’t have the looks for it.”

“What? Who? Where? Let me at them!”

She laughed at his – mostly - fake outrage. “It’s fine, I’ve had my revenge. He knows he was wrong and has apologised.  No, I can’t say I lack for much.” She stopped, looked up into his face, now very close. His mouth was there, and she ached to touch it with her own. “Just companionship. A mate. Someone special to share it with.” She let her lips ghost over his. “The one I’ve wanted to share it with for so long, even when I tried pretend otherwise.”

Tom’s heart was pounding. There was no point in dissembling, not with Martha. “I know what I want, Martha. Well, some days I do.” He took a deep breath. “I want a partner, a family, that warmth, that support. But I have spent so long striving, working and you know, all that shit, because I also want the career, the validation, the approval. And then there is the other thing.”

Martha simply stroked the side of his head, letting her hand drift down his cheek until it rested on the side of his neck and shoulder. She thought she knew what was coming.

“I’m scared, Martha. I’m a big fat coward. I’m afraid that whatever, _whoever_ , it won’t last. However wonderful it feels, however true and deep… I don’t want that pain. Not for me, not for any kids… You scare me too, but in a good way. You challenge me, and I need that, I love it. Will you get bored with me ultimately, Mar?” She shook her head, but his eyes were closed. “I love you, Martha. I have for as long as I’ve known you. But I am still scared shitless.”

“I know, Tom.” Her voice was calm.

“I want to be there. In that place, with you. But how do I get there without taking that risk?”

‘You can’t. But that’s the thing, silly… We’re all scared. It _is_ a risk, loving someone. Trusting them with your heart. It doesn’t always last, that’s true. But you and I, this feeling, it’s lasted despite a lot of obstacles already, hasn’t it? Despite us both trying to sabotage it all the time…?” He pulled her against him again, stroked her arm and her hair as she rested her head on his shoulder. “I’ve never dated anyone since I met you, you know that? There’s been the odd, you know, _thing_ …but no BFs. Not one. A journalist actually asked me if I was a lesbian the other week, did I tell you?”

Her voice was washing over him, making every nerve in his body tingle and simultaneously every muscle relax. She turned to look up into his face again and this time he kissed her mouth. The sound of birdsong was piercing the morning air as they gave themselves up to it, their bodies melting into one another as it deepened.

“I think it’s time you saw my bedroom, properly, Thomas.”


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That wench is stark mad or wonderful forward”  
> The Taming of the Shrew, William Shakespeare
> 
> “He’s the one. I might not be, but he is.”  
> (From ‘Scenes’ by Martha East)
> 
> Well, now they are together, but that means consequences...

## MARCH 2011

She was delighted to see him although she was equally amazed he had come. He was so incredibly busy these days. Texts came with photos from all over the world. He had been working with some extraordinary people – Spielberg, _Woody Allen_ , for fuck’s sake! But somehow, in a tiny window of his packed schedule he had made it to the wrap party for her first West End production. The first she had _written_ , that is. Just a small play in a small theatre by a small writer, but nevertheless, _hers._ And precious.

He stood beside her, smiling, looking unreasonably gorgeous (stardom suited him, she teased – his wardrobe had improved no end, for one thing) and she kept drinking, because it seemed like the only way to cope. He had downed a few too, she noted, and while she was listening to the kind things her agent was saying she spotted him pouring himself another scotch at the open bar.

“You’re going at it tonight, Hiddleston. Drinking to forget?”

As usual, her company was unsettling him and on top of that, now he had stopped working and travelling for a brief moment, weariness was sapping his resistance. Alcohol seemed like a good way to dull the uneasiness.

He was back at her side, a glass of Sauvignon Blanc for her in his other hand. He raised an eyebrow. “Just trying to keep up with you, _Boozy McDrunkison_.” He looked at her steadily, daring her to challenge him this time.

Before she could cut him off at the knees once more, they were interrupted. He stepped back as she was surrounded by a group of young actors, admirers no doubt. He watched her face as she listened to their questions thoughtfully, and as she began to talk, serious and joking in turns, engaged with her companions and passionate about her subject. She really was quite special. He knew no one like her; nobody who had such a profound affect on him, who radiated so much energy. She was extraordinary in the true meaning of the word.

By one am, the party was breaking up. The run had not been a long one, but it had been intense and those directly involved were anticipating a rest or their next projects. Martha herself had filming to do in the following week - a guest part in _Doctor Who_ , another small role in the re-booted _Sherlock Holmes_ thing, and she had a radio drama on her laptop she needed to finish. Not that she was up to doing anything much at all by the time Tom was politely but firmly shoving her into a black cab.

She flopped onto the seat. “I may have overindulged a little, darling Thomas.” She allowed her eyes to run over him; so close beside her she could hear his breathing. He was so handsome and sophisticated in his dinner suit. She mourned his fluffy curls but liked the shorter, more adult cut he now sported. She sighed, and the deep breath that followed it filled her head with the scent of him: fun, confident, male, sexy. She looked away, trying to gather herself.

_This is Tom, he’s not interested. If he was, well, there’ve been plenty of times he could have shown it. Just pull in your horns, Mar. Don’t make a fool of yourself. He likes the skinny dark ones, the short ones, the pretty soft ones, not the snarky bitches…_

The taxi had stopped. Tom paid the driver and took her arm. He wasn’t sober either, or he might have asked the cabbie to wait. The booze had smothered his fear, made him bold and he thought she looked beautiful and bloody sexy in her short green silk dress and long suede boots. He opened her door for her and as they walked into the house he caught her elbow. She turned to him and their lips were so near he had no hesitation in closing the miniscule gap between them.

Martha melted into his embrace. How often had she thought about this but dismissed it as an impossible dream? Her hands ran up his arms and caressed the back of his neck, holding him more firmly against her mouth. Little moans were coming from him: deep, male noises that went straight to her sex. She ran her stockinged leg up his, pressing herself into his powerful runner’s thigh to get some friction. Heavy breathing filled the hallway. She thought of her bed, just a flight of stairs away.

Suddenly he was pulling back, his hands on her upper arms. “No, Martha, not like this. You’re drunk. So am I. It wouldn’t-”

“I’m not that drunk. I know what-”

“Martha, no.” He looked at her intensely. “How convenient is it that we’re both a bit pissed? Right, let’s just let loose and fuck tonight so that tomorrow morning we can blame it all on the booze instead of on what we want from each other.” He was shaking his head, now not meeting her eye. She licked her lips, savouring the taste of him that lingered there. She knew he was right. She looked at him in the gloom of her narrow hall. He had returned his gaze to her face, and she saw the expression of regret. He was right, but he was not offering a solution and she did not know what to do next; how to get to him in spite of herself. Worst of all, she now had a taste of that rejection - the one she had feared since they first met in that freezing room in Lambeth. It was hard to bear.

“You’re quite right, of course. How ghastly would a drunken pity-fuck be?” He started to say something but she shut him down. “No. You’d best be getting home. Before this gets any more embarrassing for us both.” She was opening the front door. There was little doubt that she expected him to leave.

He wanted to shout at her, to tell her how he wanted to make love to her. To the cleverest, wittiest, most talented woman he knew, but that he was too pissed and so was she and that was not how he wanted it to be between them. He wanted to tell her that he was afraid of what could happen between them after, that he wasn’t sure he could be what she wanted, or needed. And because he didn’t really know what he wanted, and he definitely had no idea what Martha wanted, he left.

A week later he was back aboard the rocket ship his career had become. Off, far away and for a long time.

****

## PRESENT DAY

The skin under her clothes was even paler than he expected, soft and sweet smelling, with a dusting of freckles everywhere. He had seen her breasts on screen, glimpsed them once or twice in dressing rooms on tour, but they were firmer and softer to the touch than his fantasy. They fit into the palms of his hands as if meant to be there. Tom closed his eyes to relish the sounds of pleasure that she was making in his ear. He was in Martha’s bed at long last. Eight years after he had first pictured it in his fevered imagination, he was there, lying beside her, his lips already swollen from their kisses, his cock hard and aching, desperate for her warm wetness.

The room was dark, despite the coming dawn, thick brocade curtains keeping the day out. It seemed fitting to Tom: they were in their own private universe. Nothing else mattered for now, just him and her and their bodies close together, scents mingling, the cool weather making them cling to each other even more. The walls of her bedroom were green, a warm shade of olive that made him think of hot, cricket-chirping days in the heat of an Italian summer.  She was his sun, the glow of her beauty, the white-hot intensity of her almost burning him. She was his now, after so long.

She was dreaming. Had to be, because sex was never like this.  Never so overwhelming: at once all movement and energy, yet still and gentle. His long fingers, those beautiful artist’s fingers were on her thigh, pressing and stroking and she thought she would go mad if he didn’t touch her _there_ soon. But she wanted it to be slow, to enjoy every sensation. The scent of him, the feel of his hard muscle and golden skin, the pattern of the freckles on his collarbones and arms, the few, teasing hairs on his chest; the thicker hair below.

He tasted her mouth again, nuzzling her cheek, letting his tongue caress her lips and the tiny soft hairs on her jaw. Her hands were on his head, tangling with the curls, holding him to her so she could kiss him back. In bed, as everywhere else, Martha went for what she wanted. She pulled him back from her face for a moment.

“If you don’t touch me properly in a minute I swear I will die, Thomas. Or just kill you.” She shrugged. “Whatever. Same result.”

He chuckled darkly and pressed the tips of his fingers to her folds, which were dripping with her arousal. The pleasure sent her reeling, gasping for air. So long she had waited, wanted this, refused most others because they were not _him_. She never admitted that. She always pretended it was just a case of being too fussy, too busy, or just too tired. His firm movements were bringing her to the brink, making her moan and whimper. She opened her eyes to look into his, those blue pools she had drowned in before. This time they were black.

He began to move down the bed and she caught him by the arm.

“Not this time, Tom. Please? I just want _you_ , this time. Just, you know, you and me and…”

He nodded and kissed and nibbled his way back up to her face. He knew what she meant.  He felt it too. Something about this demanded a simplicity from them both: a purity, almost. He placed one hand beside her head on the pillow, and ran the other down the outside of her thigh, lifting it up to his waist. She opened up for him and with her help he slid steadily and inexorably into her welcoming body. He fit her. She fit him. It was perfect.

Tears fell from his eyelashes, dropped gently onto her face. She reached up and kissed them away from his cheek, stroking his hair.

“My darling.”

“Mar, it’s just so-“

“I know.”

Soon her softness and his hardness demanded movement and they began the dance, the oldest dance in the universe. Man with woman, male against female, commonplace but unique, and for them incredibly precious. Tom watched her face, gloried in how she kept her flashing green eyes locked on his, even as she began to come apart around him while he made love to her. Because that was what this was: _making love_. For the first time in his life he understood that term completely. He wanted to give himself fully to another person, to open up and risk everything because this was her, _his Martha_ and she deserved nothing less. She would accept nothing less from him.

And he wanted to give her it all.

*****

“You know, you’re going to have to grow a pair and tell her, Thomas.”

It was noon, and the bright midday sun was casting a line of blinding light across the wooden floorboards through the gap where the curtains didn’t quite meet. Tom was watching the dust motes floating and spinning in the beam. They were still in bed, sleepy, snuggling and cosy, pretending they could stay there forever.

He sighed and kissed her forehead as she lay draped across him teasing one nipple with her fingers.

“Yeah.” His voice was low and sad. He hated scenes, and Jeanette was not the easiest of people to deal with when she was upset. “I’m going to ring her tonight. She’s in California, so…”

“Far enough away?”

He laughed breathily. “Probably not.” He was terrible at these things. He had tended to let the woman be the one to actually break it off before, mainly by just allowing things peter out in the relationship. So often he had been told off for not being honest about his feelings with girlfriends. He saw it in himself but he had no idea how to change it. Until now.

“You have to be fair to her, Tom. Lord knows, I’ve no particular brief for the woman, but it’s not her fault, and she mustn’t find out from anyone else.”

He sat up suddenly. He had parked a couple of streets away – had to, there was no space outside her house. Had he been seen walking back? Had one of the apparently uninterested crowd outside the BBC actually noticed them? “You think we were seen last night? We weren’t holding hands or anything. We’re old friends, colleagues, I mean no one will think-”

“Calm your tits, love.” Martha suppressed a laugh. He really was hopeless. She reached for her phone on the bedside table and checked her Twitter feed. She searched her tags, then his to be sure: not a peep. “I think your balls are safe for now, dear. But you’ve got to tell her it’s over.”

*****

Tom sat in his favourite chair and, steeling himself, he dialled. He was half-hoping that it would go to voicemail, but no, she picked up, a smile in her voice.

“Hey, stranger! How’s London?’

“Hi Jeanette. It’s cold, rainy. You know, it’s London.”

“What have you been doing? Why haven’t you answered my messages?” He was quiet, finding himself choked with emotion. He swallowed thickly. “Tom? What’s going on?”

“Look, Jeanette, I haven’t been fair to you. I’ve let this drag on, which was wrong of me…”

“ _Drag on?_ What the fuck does that mean, Tom?”

“I’m sorry, Jeanie…but it’s over. I should have told you weeks ago. I’m sorry… There’s someone else. Someone I’ve known for a very long time. She and I… we just never seemed to be able…but now we have and I wanted you to hear it from me.”

There was a pregnant silence from the other end of the line. Tom could almost see her winding up.

“Who is this ‘ _someone’_?” Now there was real menace in her tone.

He paused, wondering if he should say. There would be trouble; he had no doubt about that. Jeanie was not one to go quietly, he feared, and she had been revelling in the publicity their dates had been given. “If you must know, it’s Martha East.”

“Who’s _she_?”

Martha did not have a high profile Stateside. She had only been in a few TV shows that had been shown there.

“She is… a friend. We’ve known each other for over eight years. She and I have always… well, we love each other, Jeanie. I’m sorry, but that’s it.” He felt oddly calm now. The worst was over, surely. She would accept it and they could get on with their lives.

There was another long silence from California. She must have been searching the net, because the next thing he heard was a gasp.

“ _Her_? Are you _serious,_ Tom? Have you looked-”

“Stop right there, Jeanie. We’re not discussing Martha.”

“But Tom, we are fun together, we look good together. She…she’s-“.

He was angry now, wondering how he had managed to ignore this shallowness for so long. “I am sorry if I have hurt you, but it’s been over for a while, and we both know it. I’m going to hang up now. Good bye, Jeannette.”

He ended the call, and immediately texted Martha to tell her he had done the deed. And to warn her that there were likely to be consequences.

He was right. Within minutes he had a call from his publicist, Luke.

“There seems to be a shitstorm brewing on Twitter, mate. Anything you want to tell me?”

“Ah. Jeanette, by any chance?”

“Not her, but some of her little friends, by the look. So, when were you going to tell me about you and MARTHA?”

Tom squirmed. So Martha was being mentioned… He knew he should have kept Luke in the loop – it was his friend’s job to manage this sort of thing – but he had to tell Jeanette first, of course. He hadn’t expected things to kick off quite so rapidly.

“I only just broke it off with Jeanette, Luke. Literally minutes ago.  Honestly, it’s been dead for ages but she couldn’t, or wouldn’t see that. And of course, I was too much of a knob to say so.”

“But Martha? I thought you two were just mates.”

“We were. We are… But Luke, she’s the… I don’t know, we’ve been so close, and once we nearly, you know. But I fucked up. Big time. When I read the play, you know, the radio one we just recorded, it was about _us_ , Luke. She got me, bang to rights. Made me see.”

Luke sighed. “OK then. Are you happy, you two? And are you ready for this? Because it’s gonna get pretty nasty. It is already, actually. And if I know Martha East, she won’t turn the other cheek.”

“We are, yes. It’s only been a day, I know, but…yes. I think this is it, Luke.” He thought of her. Of how she made his heart swell and how they had held each other and it felt so right. “OK, mate, keep me posted. I…I suppose I should monitor this _myself_ , shouldn’t I?”


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And thereby hangs a tale”  
> The Taming of the Shrew, William Shakespeare
> 
> “…those eyes, I need to see those eyes every day…”  
> (From ‘Scenes’ by Martha East)

## PRESENT DAY

 

_**From Laureen So Cal:** _

_**@jeanieshaw some people cant keep their hands of other girls guys. @thetimeisnowmartha #britishbitch #hiddlescheat** _

__

_**From Laureen So Cal:** _

_**@thetimeisnowmartha have u hit @twhiddleston in the head? I gues he needs an eye test #hiddlescheat** _

__

_**From Jeanette Shaw:** _

_**@lusciouslulu some people just want it easy and plain. Their loss.  #britishbitch #hiddlescheat** _

__

_**From Martha East:** _

_**@lusciouslulu has proven the dire need to invest in education. Care to join me in the fight (for money)? #grammarmatters #sodoesspelling** _

__

_**From Jeanette Shaw:** _

_**@thetimeisnowmartha typical british intellectual wannabe who pretends to care #hypocrite #alsoknownasthebeast** _

__

_**From Martha East:** _

_**@jeanieshaw  “Nature teaches beasts to know their friends” WS Coriolanus #nottamedyet** _

 

Not many minutes after she landed that last blow, Martha’s phone rang. She braced herself: she knew he wasn’t going to be happy.

“Please, enough now. OK?”

She sighed. He hated all this, he’d told her from the outset, but she hadn’t started it, and all she was doing was standing her ground.

“You’ve made your point, and better still, she’s made herself look a complete bitch. Luke tells me she’s losing followers almost as fast as you are gaining them.”

“Well… Good. But that’s not why I responded, you know that.”

“Of course. But please, no more?”

She thought about it. There would be other chances to fight the good fight, plenty no doubt, now she was entering his world. She was already formulating some choice red carpet put-downs for sexist interviewers even as she agreed to his request to hop off her soapbox – temporarily.

“I’m not asking you to stop talking about the issues, you know I wouldn’t. I just need you to pull back from this particular battle.”

“It’s done. No more. I promise.” She listened to his breathing, not wanting to end the call. She loved the closeness that even a simple phone call gave.

Tom felt himself relax a little. Life with her was never going to be without controversy; that was who she was, and he had accepted that. He had one more thing to say before he got on with his day.

“So, $10,000 to the _Knowledge is Power Program_ is a good start?”

Martha hugged the phone to her chest for a moment. Then something occurred to her. “And a few grand to _Eastside Educational_ too, perhaps?” She heard his grunt of approval. “Oh, and Thomas William?”

“Yes, Martha Helen?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

****

## JUNE 2013

“Well, it’s _pretty_ good.”

She bristled at the words. Through gritted teeth, she managed to ask “What’s wrong with it?”

Tom was smiling, knowing he had riled her. He could never resist it, because Angry Martha was so much more fun. “Nothing, _really_.” She took a step towards the sofa where he was sitting. Preparing to make a run for it, he uncrossed his legs and tried to spot escape routes. “It lacks a little…” He paused, knowing he had to express himself clearly, as he might not get another chance. “… emotional _power_?”

Too late, he realised all hope of evasion was gone. Martha had closed the space between them and now stood so near that she loomed over him, arms crossed and glaring.

“Oh _does_ it, _Neruda_? What would you suggest to… _improve it?”_

She was angry, but mainly because she knew he was right. When she had been asked if she would accept an honorary doctorate from her old university she had been thrilled. Her parents were ecstatic. It wasn’t until she received the formal invitation that she discovered she was expected to address the graduating students, those who were getting their properly earned qualifications at the same ceremony. It was a great honour, and she felt, a great responsibility. Some of those who would be there were leaving with the same degree as she had, so she wanted to speak to them as much as the room as a whole.

But when she tried to write her speech it just came out as dry and boring. She had made a deliberate attempt to avoid a list of name-dropping anecdotes along the lines of ‘Dame Judi and I were laughing the other day...’ or ‘Sir Patrick and Sir Ian, my dear friends…’ but she feared she might have strayed a bit too far in the other direction. The citation she had been sent said she had been given the award for her tireless campaigning on women’s issues, arts funding and arts education in all levels of learning. So she had written a speech about those things.

“There’s next to nothing about _you,_ darling. About what the University of Essex gave _you,_ or even about what the issues you talk about mean to _you.”_ He was pointing up at her on each ‘you’, and she found herself staring at his long, elegant finger as it jabbed in her direction.

“Right. OK. So, what do you suggest? Scrap this totally and start again?” She sat down next to him, deflated, all the fight she had stood up with gone. She accepted he was correct in his analysis.

Tom looked at her for a long moment. She had changed her hairstyle recently to an androgynous spikey crop that suited her well. It emphasised the oval shape of her face, revealed her freckles and the green flash of her eyes. A few more seconds passed while he wondered what that reddish-blonde hair would feel like between his fingers. Then he snapped out of it.

“No need for that, darling. Just shorten the sections on the issues – those are really good, but you need some personal stuff in there. What your work means to you, how what you learned there did - or did not - help. And start and finish with a story.”

She turned and looked at him. They were very close; she could smell his cologne, and see the flecks in his eyes. Count the freckles on his neck. “A story?”

“You must have loads. Come on, funny ones about jobs…  or auditions gone wrong. Like the rain at Chatsworth that day. Or how you humiliated Loki every night on tour in _As You Like It_ …”

His smile was tentative, and Martha found her eyes drawn to his mouth. She had tasted it once, tantalisingly; apart that is from the uncomfortable fake ‘kisses’ they had endured in that period thing they did together in the Stone Age… Was that it, that night? Their one chance? Was it gone now?

“You’re a pal, Tom.” She stood up and taking the sheets of A4 from him she walked over to her desk. “Can I email you the redraft? I’ll try and do it tonight.”

“Of course, darling.” He reached for his jacket, aware he was being dismissed. He’d thought they were sharing a moment then. He’d been sure of it, in fact. But apparently, it wasn’t the right moment. His fault, no doubt. He’d been getting it wrong with her from day one, and anyway, what did he want? What would ‘getting it right’ with Martha represent, exactly?

“I will be waiting by my inbox for your call, love.”

She was already typing and just waved as he let himself out, walking down the steps and across her little paved front garden, feeling that empty sensation he could never pin down.

 

## PRESENT DAY

A loud whooping from his kitchen brought Tom out of the dream he was in. “Martha? What is it?” The pillow beside his was still warm.

A few seconds later she popped her head around the bedroom doorway. “Nothing…” she sang, sweeping away out of sight again, but not before he had glimpsed her triumphant smile.

“Liar.” He got out of bed and padded barefoot – bare _everything_ , actually – down the corridor to find her sitting at his kitchen table. He looked at her grinning madly at her phone as she texted. “Good news?”

She paused in her typing and looked over to where he stood, leaning against the door jam, arms folded and buck-naked. He took her breath away, but he did that all the time, dressed or otherwise. It was a testament to her love for his mind above all else that even now it was his face that held her eyes.

“Um, yes.” She looked down, trying not to laugh. “I heard from Marianne, my agent. Rufus has confirmed he wants me to do _The Rings of Saturn.”_ She looked up cautiously. Tom was still there, and only the slight tightening of his jaw and a definite straightening in his posture betrayed his annoyance.

“Right. Did he? I see.” He turned away, planning to find his own phone to call his own agent.

“Hold on a minute, you,” she called after his retreating back, her voice rising in proportion to his distance from her. “You’re not angry about this are you? Because you know you’ll probably still be in Maui or wherever on the 23rdNovember. Which is when we start rehearsals, by the way.”

He was walking back towards the bedroom and didn’t see Martha get up and watch his progress, admiring the way the muscles moved under the still golden skin of his legs and backside. Now his face didn’t distract her she was free to ogle. And ogle she did.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he said over his shoulder, “of course they had to go with the less _busy_ option.”

She had never travelled that distance so fast. She caught him up. “What did you say?” Tom felt a slight chill: her voice was low and had emerged from between gritted teeth. He might have gone a little too far. _Distraction: that was the answer_. He turned, leading with his most endearing smile, which only faltered a little when it was met with a fiercely glaring Martha.

“I was just teasing, darling,” he managed, stroking his hand down her arm. It wasn’t working, at least not visibly. “Actually, being an _Essex Girl_ makes you the ideal choice, does it not?”

Too late he saw the ripple of fury that crossed her face. Too late because she was already shoving him backwards so he tripped and toppled onto the bed. Quick as a flash, he reached out and caught her arm, pulling her down next to him. They were both breathing hard as they wrestled for control. After a few seconds of struggle, Martha relaxed her arms and Tom loosened his own grip. With superhuman speed she straddled him, pinning him to the mattress with her bodyweight across his chest.

“Ah, er… eheheheheh…” He was flailing, trying to escape but she was not going to move. He could have tried harder, but seeing her in full flight, all her hackles rising and her cheeks red with righteous indignation was the biggest turn on he could remember. He could feel himself growing hard, and as their eyes met she saw his desire and shared it. She leaned forward and caught his bottom lip with her teeth.

“Stop being a tit and be happy for me, Thomas. It’s my first NT gig in three years.”

She was growling and he felt the sound go straight to his cock. “But it was _miiiiiine!_ ” he whined, and as she lifted a hand to swipe at him he took his chance and flipped them. His mouth roamed over her face as he held her down with his bodyweight, his hands by the sides of her head. She wriggled but was powerless, her own lust overtaking her as she felt his erection against her leg.

“Don’t think you can distract me, Tom.” Her eyes were still blazing, her expression stern. But he could see the blush of arousal flowing up her neck and down over the tops of her breasts, just visible above the camisole she had put on. Goose pimples were rippling up her arms and she was losing her resolve to be pissed off with him.

He nipped at her skin, nudging up the fabric that covered her with his nose. “Not…trying…to distract…you.” He pulled gently on an erect nipple. “Just…trying…to…make…love…to you.” His tongue swirled and pressed on the swollen pink bud.

Martha wriggled again and he paused in his worship of her to look up sadly. “I forgive you for stealing the job from me, darling.” Fresh anger burst across her face as he began to laugh. He caught her mouth for a deep kiss but her lips were stiff and unyielding. He pulled up, away from her face and took her head in both hands, shaking it lightly. “You’ve won this one, Mar, fair and square. Now, let me show you how _much_ I forgive you.”

Martha lifted her head up and kissed his cheek, then whispered into his ear.

“When I run the Globe, I’ll give you a job, Thomas. I think you’d make a perfect _Rosalind_ \- Oh!”

His long fingers had slid inside her, stopping her teasing in its tracks. He had to have her, his beautiful, funny, strong and brilliant Martha. And she was ready, for all her exaggerated fury.  Her hand reached down and gripped him firmly, making him hiss loudly.

“On your back, princess.”

He complied, and as soon as he did Martha was on him, carefully lowering herself down as he watched, rapt. Her body undulated over his; he held her hips and pulled her down onto him as he thrust upwards. He alternated his gaze between her still serious face and the place where they were joined. Both made love bloom in his chest. She leaned back a little and he sat up, holding her tight against his chest, now slick with sweat. She bit his shoulder gently and she felt her body tensing as her orgasm approached.

“ _Rosalind_ , really?” He was breathless and almost non-verbal as he neared his own release, but he had to tackle this.

Martha ground down against his pubic bone a little harder; it was so close now. “Yes. I think you could manage it. It’s a tough part though… or maybe _Viola,_ then _.”_

Tom was moving raggedly now, losing control.

“Or there is always _Caliban._ ” She felt his grip tighten on her hipbones. “You seem quite… _monstrous_ today.”

Tom smiled graciously, but his body was taking over and soon he felt the rush of pleasure as he emptied into her while she jerked against him and gasped, all rational thought departing them both. They collapsed into one another and stayed that way, cooling down and regaining their breath for several minutes. Eventually he spoke quietly into her neck.

“I’d happily be your _Caliban,_ my _Miranda._ ”

This was them; how they rolled. How they always had. All that had changed now they were together was the honesty in their exchanges. What had once been unsaid was now openly expressed. He pushed, she pushed back, but their love was unflinching. And they never fought without making up. At length.

But nobody lives in a vacuum. Tom was about to leave for a long shoot on the other side of the world, and interest in them and their relationship had not died down much. The Twitter ‘war’ had not been a long one. Whatever the rights and wrongs of the matter, most onlookers felt that handling it through abusive tweets was not the way to go. Martha had managed to stand her ground with grace and without ever insulting anyone (except maybe with a little sarcasm).

Neither she nor Tom ever explained publicly what had actually happened, never accepted a single one of the many offers they had to put ‘their side’. As far as they were concerned, it was a private matter: end of story. Martha came out of the initial flurry of interest confirming her status as an opinion leader. The fact that she now had one of the most attractive actors in the world as her boyfriend seemed to be a positive thing, until the articles started to appear in the tackier magazines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I originally posted this fic on Tumblr, I had the benefit of wonderful images of 'fake' tweets made for me by a talented friend. I think the reader gets the idea, even without those.


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My cake is dough, but I’ll in among the rest,/ Out of hope of all but my share of the feast.”  
> The Taming of the Shrew, William Shakespeare
> 
> “You should have learned by your age what to say, what you want, you twat…”   
> (From ‘Scenes’ by Martha East)
> 
> Tom is far away, but even so, he makes a mistake which wounds Martha.

## DECEMBER 2015

**_< wtf, Tom?>_ **

_< what Mar?>_

**_< Empire podcast, you bastard>_ **

His phone rang for a long time before she answered. He could picture her glaring at hers, at his picture, her face full of pain. He had fucked up, big time.

“Tom.” Her voice was tight, ominously quiet.

“I’m so sorry. It was a stupid, throwaway question. I shouldn’t have answered it, love, I know.”

“Really?”

“It was a joke, Mar. Chris is an old mate. I never thought they’d use it… Darling?”

“Don’t call me that.”

There was a long silence. Tom felt the seven thousand miles that divided them acutely. It was midnight for him: hot, tropical air was wafting in through his open window. The noises of the Hawaiian night were loud and still exotic to his ears, despite the long weeks he had already spent there. He thought of her sitting in the cold of wintry London, alone. Hurt.

“Martha, you know I love you. It was just a stupid, silly ill-considered response to a stupider question. Please, forgive me. I. Am. An. Idiot.”

“They were waiting for something like this, you know that. Have you looked at Twitter or Tumblr? Oh no, of course not, you’re above that sort of thing. Well I don’t need to because my friends have. Thanks Tom. Thanks.”

She hung up the phone before she started to cry. She knew he was genuinely sorry, and that it had seemed relatively harmless when he said it. She thought it was probably true too that he had not expected it to make the edit. He trusted _Empire_ and Chris Hewitt; he’d known him a long time. But his ‘silly throwaway’ answer had gone viral – as she suspected _Empire_ had known it would, and even she was not beyond humiliation. And it wounded, _burned_ because after all the months of rising above the bitchiness from Jeanette and her friends, and the misogynistic articles in the gossip press and online about her, he had made this comment to a journalist.

_A fucking journalist_.

*****

The atmosphere was relaxed in the heat of the Hawaiian sun. Everyone was having a great time. Chris’s soft Northern Irish brogue was soothing on the ear. They had been laughing and chatting for twenty minutes when he made an innocent enough remark: “So, Tom, we were all very happy to hear about you and the lovely Martha.”

Tom cleared his throat. _What?_

_“_ For listeners who have been under a rock for the past few months, that’s the incredibly talented Martha East, star of the stage, star of the much-missed TV comedy _Butterfly Mind_ , and various TV dramas as well as movies such as _Golden Summer_ and _I Have Been Here Before._ And, of course, playwright, and director-“

“And all-round genius. Yes, well…thanks.” Tom shifted a little in his chair, frowning: this was a bit off-piste. He hadn’t agreed to any personal questions, but neither had he forbidden them.

“You make a lovely couple, and she is _amazing,_ by the way.”

“Yes, she is. I am incredibly lucky.” He hoped that would be the end of it.

“Any plans to work together, on a movie or anything? We know you did that radio play of hers…”

“Um…no. Not at the moment, although I’m sure, if the right project came up…”

“She’d make a great _Sigyn,_ don’t you think Helen? That’s _Loki’s_ wife, for those of you not neck-deep in the _Marvelverse_.”

Chris’ colleague agreed. “She’d have to be brunette though. Would she look good as a brunette, Tom, do you think? And in one of those sexy Marvel costumes, those boots…”

“Oh, er, well… yes. Of course she would. She always looks beautiful.”

Tom was making throat-cutting gestures to Chris, indicating that they should stop this line of questioning. He was mightily relieved when they moved immediately on to safer ground. By the end of the long and tiring afternoon’s set visit and press junket, he had completely forgotten about the exchange. It crossed his mind later that evening over dinner, but he dismissed it, assuming his obvious discomfort would make them drop it from the finished podcast.

_Never assume, Thomas. You should know better by now._

Martha paid the cabbie and walked the few metres from the kerb to the Stage Door of the Royal National Theatre. It was cold and clear, and frost seemed just a breath away, despite the relative warmth of the city and the river nearby. She shivered and pulled her warm jacket tighter. Not all of her trembling was down to the temperature. It was the final technical rehearsal tonight, with the press in to review and she was not in the right place for this at all. At least she was able to use a script for most of the performance, because at that precise moment she could not recall a word of her narration. She ignored the small crowd with their phones and programmes, going straight inside with her head down.

Why had she allowed this silly thing to upset her so much? What Tom had said was kind and complimentary, not in any way demeaning or derogatory. The same went for the two _Empire_ journos. All that had really happened was that people who disliked her, resented her or just wanted to stir up trouble had pounced on his words and deliberately misinterpreted them. A stab of pain hit her, forcing her to fight back tears. She was furious with him, but mainly with herself for being like this.

_So what if every other girlfriend – serious or otherwise - Tom had had for years was brunette? So bloody what? So he had a ‘type’, one to which she most definitely did NOT conform…so what? He had chosen HER, he had committed himself to HER, so what did any of this matter?_

She fished her phone out of her pocket as she climbed the stairs to her dressing room, just one flight from the _Dorfman_ stage. She had many unopened messages from friends and colleagues. When she checked them, most were good wishes for the show, but a few from female friends, were offering support. Others, especially women in the business, could empathise.

She opened her dressing room door to be greeted by the sight of a massive bouquet of pink roses. She didn’t need to read the card to know whom they were from, but she looked anyway:

            **_Please, forgive this witless oaf. And knock ‘em dead, Mar.  Tx_**

After half an hour of quiet contemplation afforded her by her early arrival, she was back on an even keel, emotionally. She had spent the time working through her feelings and formulating an approach for the future. Because this sort of thing was going to happen from time to time, if she and Tom stayed together. It had happened to her on occasion already, ever since she became a ‘name’: the snitty lines in reviews about her size or her hair; the paparazzi photographs of her at the supermarket sans makeup, or sweaty, fresh from the gym. Because she was a minor TV star, only the British tabloids and gossip mags bothered about her then, and as she never read those she had simply ignored it. None of it had affected her career in the slightest: she wasn’t in that sort of category.

What made this worse, and harder to bear, was the viciousness of it, coupled with the fact that Tom was on the other side of the world. When she was in his arms, nothing seemed impossible and she felt safe and secure. But seeing the bitchy headlines – “ _I PREFER MY WOMEN BRUNETTE says Tom”; “Tom admits he’d like Martha to dye her hair”; “TROUBLE IN TOMMAR PARADISE?” –_ while she wassitting alone in her bed in Stoke Newington was no fun. And she had caved in.

Rufus Norris, Artistic Director of the Royal National Theatre, popped his head around her partly open door.

“Everything alright, Martha?” His face was etched with worry as he walked into the room and sat beside her.

“I’m fine. Really. All set.”

“Not gonna let this silliness get to you?” She shrugged and shook her head. “Good. Break one!”

The rehearsal went well, and Martha found, as had happened a few times in the past, that the forgotten lines returned to her without effort once her feet hit the boards. She had to address the audience from the middle of the stage at the end of the performance and she could feel the warmth and goodwill radiating towards her. She was in tears as the house lights went up, but they were good tears.

Back at home, she texted Tom and he asked for FaceTime. She dialled him immediately and was overcome with emotion as his face appeared, lighting up the midnight gloom of her sitting room.

“Oh my love, how was it?”

“The technical, or the media storm?”

He chewed his lip. He deserved that. “The show.”

“It went really well, actually. No alarms or excursions. All the video inserts worked fine, which probably means they never will again. Mark was happy, Julian was ecstatic and Rufus seemed satisfied.”

He nodded, still playing for time. What could he say, what could he do from so far away?

“You know I would never do anything to hurt you deliberately, don’t you?”

She nodded. “Of course, love. And I’m sorry I was so short with you last time. It’s just that-“

“This is what you were afraid of, being in a relationship with me?”

“Yes.” Her voice was small. She was ashamed, if she was honest about it. The great espouser of feminist values being upset by some stupid fuss about her hair colour. Except that there was way, way more to it than that. “I can’t help it, Tom. All the years, all the time I thought you weren’t interested in me… I knew you liked me, my… spirit, but then I’d see you with those women so different from me in size, colouring and attitude, those ‘brunettes’ and I’d be sure that the last thing you’d want would be lumpy great ginger me, with my pasty complexion and my freckly arms… Yes Thomas, I’m a woman after all and I might be just a tiny little bit…. Insecure… no: _uncertain_ about how you feel about some of my physical attributes.”

‘Oh Mar… Have I not shown you, extensively, what you do to me? I wish I had a teleporter! I need to hold you, and to show you again. I never needed to more.” He sighed. He’d have to find words, _the right ones_ , because that was all he could offer her tonight. “First of all, yes, I have dated a few ‘industry conforming’ dark-haired girls, I don’t know why, exactly. At least two were because they reminded me of a third…” He winced. That was not something he was proud of. “But _you_? You break all my rules, always have. I never dared… I was never attracted to anyone the way I am to you. And the idea of dating someone who _looked_ like you but wasn’t _you_? Not a chance. That would have been too painful.” He reached out to his phone, wishing with all his heart he could touch her face. “You are so unique, so precious to me, so unequalled, Martha… No, there could never be a substitute, so I had to keep finding someone so _unlike_ you it dulled the pain. The pain of not having _you._ ”

*****

## FOUR WEEKS LATER

For some reason she didn’t understand, Jeremy was squeezing Martha’s hand extra tightly at the curtain call tonight. They were ending the fourth week of the six-week run and audiences had been good, the reviews positive. As usual, the applause was warm and enduring. Turning her head to smile at him she saw his eyes glisten in the spotlighting. She cocked her head to speak to him above the noise filling the _Dorfman._

“You OK, love?”

Jeremy grinned at her, nodding. He said nothing and so she was none the wiser as the lights went down for the final time and the cast made their way offstage. Everyone, ASMs and technicians, Mark the director… _everyone was smiling at her._

_What was going on?_

Martha descended the stairs to her dressing room, still puzzling, and when she opened the door she found the answer. While she had been onstage for the entire second half unlike all her colleagues, Tom had arrived unannounced and was waiting there for her.

“What the fucking hell are _you_ doing here?”

“Lovely to see you too, Martha.” His smile was as unwavering as ever. It widened when she walked over and straddled his lap.

“You’re not supposed to be here until Sunday.” Her face was dark with fake irritation as she tapped his nose in admonition. Then she bent and kissed his forehead, which was tanned, and ran her hands over his sun-bleached curls. “What happened?’

He stretched his jaw. “Ah, well, I might have been a little… _economical with the truth._ I wanted to surprise you. I actually left Hawaii three days ago. I stopped off in LA to sign a contract.”

She leaned back to look into his face. “The Joss one?”

He nodded, grinning. “Yep. Next summer, you can call me _Petruchio.”_

“I think this all calls for a proper celebration, Thomas.” She slid off his lap and walked the two steps to the tiny fridge, which sat on the weather-beaten table against the wall. She opened the door and produced a bottle of champagne with a flourish. “I always keep one handy. For emergencies.” Her eyes were sparkling.

Tom stood up, shaking his head. “Not tonight, Martha. Not after three months away.” He was very close now, looking down at her, his breath washing over her face. “I have a much better idea. Let’s go home.”

“Yours or mine?” She could hardly speak; the air seemed to have been sucked out of the room suddenly.

“Yours tonight, love. There’s nothing much at mine. And that’s something we need to talk about, too.”

“Oh yes?” She sat down at her dressing table and began to remove her stage make-up as fast as she could. The role of narrator didn’t call for all that much slap, but she hated the heaviness of it on her face. Tom came and stood behind her chair as he ran a hand over her shoulder.

“I’d like us to move in together. If that’s what you’d like too, of course.” Their eyes met in the mirror. “We can talk about it. “

Martha had been thinking about that a lot recently, and she had half-expected him to say it. If he hadn’t, she would have. The time had come for there to be a place that was ‘theirs’. She nodded at his reflection and he smiled that sweet lop-sided grin of his that she could never resist. She pulled at face at him. “Oh get away with those puppy-eyes, you! Let me finish and then we can get going.”

The car dropped them off a little over half an hour later. Martha had hired Tom’s old helper Faisal, after the press and a few oddball ‘fans’ had made the first couple of weeks at the NT an ordeal. Her quiet street was no longer that, at least not all the time. There were periodic invasions, or at least incursions, and she was beginning to feel uncomfortable there. Faisal helped her get home safely and she was very grateful for that. On this occasion they reached her front door unmolested, and once Tom had dropped his bags in the hall they more or less ran up the stairs. Before they had reached her bedroom Tom caught her in his long arms.

“Come, here, my beautiful one.” He nuzzled her hair and ran his hands over her body. “God, I have missed you so much.”

“Even the hair?” She felt him pause his caressing.

“OK, I deserved that.” He turned her in his arms and held her head gently between his large hands. “I can’t promise you that I won’t do anything, or say anything that stupid again, Mar. I am just a man; _errare humanum est,_ my love. But I can promise you one thing.” He bent and kissed her mouth so softly that she began to cry at the tenderness of it. “I will never, _ever_ hurt you deliberately. NEVER.”

Unable to speak, she simply clasped her hands around his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers. This time the kiss was not soft: it was hard and greedy and Tom lowered his hands to her backside and lifted her up and against him. He walked them the last few steps to her bed and they fell onto it together, barely breaking the kiss.

No more words, even for these loquacious lovers. No need for them, no breath for them; no thoughts save the love and longing that had endured the long weeks of separation and was now finally over. Just their bodies and hearts joining anew in the dark softness of her bed; just the tender touches and desperation of two people needing to reaffirm their affection. His need to prove once more that _he chose her_ , that _he loves her_ to the exclusion of all others; her need to believe that, once again, and to show him she returns his love, with interest.

Tom’s mind and body were tired after a long, tough shoot and two exhausting flights in a few days. But seeing Martha again had filled him with the energy he needed and he gave her all that he had left. His mouth adored her, and she writhed with pleasure. His fingers explored her and she cried her joy to the frosty city outside her window. She pressed herself against him and they were joined at last, using their final traces of strength to bring each other to the peaks only they could share. As he drifted off to sleep at last, Tom held her as close as he could and whispered.

“Please. Come live with me and be my love, Martha my dear.”

He lost the battle with sleep and was gone in seconds, so he didn’t hear her answer, ”Yes, my beautiful man, I will.”

 

 


	9. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “She moves me not, or not removes at least affection's edge in me.”  
> The Taming of the Shrew, William Shakespeare
> 
> “Oh god, when she looks at me like that I know… I just know.”  
> (From ‘Scenes’ by Martha East)
> 
> Six months have passed, and something unexpected happens.

## JUNE 2016

Her phone was buzzing again. She had deliberately put it on the bookshelf out of reach because the temptation to keep checking it for messages was too great. She was at the worst stage of a writing project: day one. Blank page. Nothing there yet. She had a plan, but she needed a way in. An opening sentence or stage direction, or even one from the middle or end of a scene. Anything to get her going.

So far: _nada. Rien._

She muttered under her breath. “C’mon, guys, _speak to me!”_

The buzzing again. She assumed it was Tom. It was day one of rehearsals for _The Taming of the Shrew._ He had been so excited when he left for his mother’s Suffolk home the day before she had almost telephoned Diana to warn her not to give him too much sugar or anything with colouring in it. He was working with Joss Whedon again, and if she were being honest, she’d have been exactly the same, under the circumstances. Plus, Shakespeare, in any form, was his idea of heaven. And hers, come to that.

She set aside the struggle for a moment at least, and stood to reach the high shelf where she had put her phone. Just as she did, the landline rang loudly on the desk. She looked at the caller id. It was Tom.

“Haven’t you got my messages? I’ve been trying to call you for an hour, Mar.”

“I’ve been working, or at least attempting to. What’s the matter, love?”

“Daniela has dropped out.”

“What?” How would they manage? You can’t really have a _Taming_ without a _Katherine._ “Why? What’s happened?”

“It’s medical, sort of. Apparently she’s had several miscarriages, and now she’s pregnant again. The advice is total bed rest for the next three months. It’s going to cost her, breaking the contract. But you can’t blame her.”

“No,” Martha replied thoughtfully. They had just started to talk about starting a family, and she had yet to fully think through all the implications, professionally speaking. “But what’s Joss going to do? Postpone? He can’t recast this late, can he?”

She heard Tom’s funny laugh down the line. “That’s why I’ve been trying to get hold of you. Me, and probably Marianne, and Joss himself too, if you check your bloody phone, love.”

_He couldn’t mean…_

“They’re asking you to consider it, Martha.” He could hear her breathing. “I told them you’d played the role before, fairly recently.”

Martha’s mind was working overtime, considering the possibility. She was free, notionally, although she had deliberately blocked out this time Tom would be away to write. It was true she had played _Kate_ in the RSC production at the Barbican, just the year before last.  This project had intrigued her from the first moment Tom told her about it. Joss’ vision imagined Tom’s _Petruchio_ as a veteran of the Great War, persuaded by an old army comrade (played by Clark Gregg) to help him in his wooing of a rich man’s daughter. Nathan Fillion was to play the father, and Karen Gillan of _Doctor Who_ fame was to be _Bianca_ , _Kate’s_ prettier, sweeter little sister. And that was just the start:it was a cast to die for…

_And what an opportunity…!_

“I may also have mentioned that you have been reading for me when I was learning my lines…”

“Oh, you did, did you?” She had already decided to meet with them at least, but she wasn’t going to let him off that easily. “Since when did you become my agent, Thomas? I can find my own work, you know.”

That laugh again, as muffled as he could manage; he knew he had her hooked. “But Mar, we could be working _together_ , with _Joss_ , on _Shakespeare_ … On _this_ , of all plays! So perfect for us! Please say you’ll come up and talk to them, at least?”

Three hours later, Martha was unbuckling her seatbelt in the car park at Oxburgh Hall, the beautiful 500-year-old moated manor house where Joss Whedon had decided to film the second in his planned trilogy of Shakespeare comedies. It was one of those lovely summer days you occasionally get in England. The air was still and warm; the only sound she could hear was the gangs of swifts wheeling and screaming around the high walls and turrets of the castle-like building; the scent of flowers hung there, rich and fragrant. Running feet crunched on the gravel just before her door was opened, and there was Tom’s beaming face.

“That was quick, love! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

“You didn’t leave me until after lunch yesterday, you great loon. It’s been less than a day-“

He put a stop to her quibbling with a kiss: long, soft and lingering until they heard more footsteps and a discreet cough. “You must be Martha. I’m Joss. It’s great to meet you.”

Tom stepped aside, taking her arm to allow her to get out of her car and shake the hand that created _Buffy_. She was completely star struck, at first unable to speak, then babbling, before the seasoned actor kicked in as Joss spoke to her about the role.

“I realise this is ludicrously short notice, and a massive ask, but Tom seems to think you are equal to the challenge.”

“Well, he is hardly an unbiased source, but I have stepped into a production at a late stage before, it’s true. Do you need me to do a screen test?”

There was an exchange of looks between Joss and his assistant who was yet to be introduced. “How about we just get you to read a scene with old Loki over there, and then we can talk about it.” Joss didn’t say it, but the entire movie was at her mercy. If she said no, they would have to postpone, possibly indefinitely.

“And what about costume? I’m not exactly a good match for Daniela,” She thought about the petite American.

“There’s no need to worry about that for the moment. Come and have a look at the sets, then we’ll try that reading, shall we?”

*****

## THREE WEEKS LATER

Martha regarded herself critically in the mirror. Her short hair lent itself ideally to the nineteen-twenties setting Joss had chosen for the movie. The curls the hairdresser had given her matched the Daisy Buchanan-style make up, and she was looking forward to wearing yet another of the silk shift dresses that hung waiting for her in the wardrobe trailer.

_Not too bad, Mar_

“God, you look good enough to eat.”

“Behave yourself, Thomas.” She was smiling, nonetheless.

Tom was in the chair next to her, his blond curls being flattened with product to look pomaded. Their eyes met in the mirror, and he pursed his lips in a kiss. The make up and hair artists working on them sighed happily. As usual, he was charming everyone, but it was his obvious and unwavering adoration for Martha that was entrancing even the most cynical members of the crew. Jamie and Marisa, who were transforming the twenty-first century cast, two by two, into credible inhabitants of the Roaring Twenties, exchanged soppy looks.

Martha had mixed feelings. This was new to her. Never before had she been in a relationship with a co-star, mainly because there had been no such thing in her life since she became a professional actor. Tom was completely relaxed about showing affection off camera, and did so. She returned it, but she was slightly worried there was a danger they were coming across as unprofessional. In her experience, such as it was, working in productions with romantically involved co-star couples was not ideal. At best it was a distraction, so she hoped that Joss and the others weren’t finding it too nauseating.

She returned her eyes to the script in her hand. While it was true she knew the play once, many other words had been learned since then. She was only just keeping ahead of the filming schedule with her lines, mainly thanks to Tom’s patient assistance. That was the hardest part of the job. The rest was pretty damn great: working with Joss was a delight, the rest of the cast were fun to be with as well as highly talented and professional. She had already fallen deeply in love with both Nathan and Clark, and was well on the way to being fast friends with Karen and Christian Cooke _._

And, anxieties about the personal side of it aside, working with Tom again was heavenly. He was such a great actor: so supportive; so giving; so funny. And she got to go home with him every night. Or more accurately, back to where they were staying.

That was the one minor irritation: a couple of photographers and a handful of fans had found the small hotel in Swaffham where they were all staying and had been making life a little unpleasant for the staff and other guests. Interest in the project was already high, not least because it was Joss, and would be the first time Tom and Clark had worked together since _Loki_ killed _Coulson_ in _Avengers._ Then the small excitement of Daniela having to withdraw, and word leaking out that Martha had come on board meant it was inevitable there would be at least some tabloid attention.

There was still a degree of hunger for photographs of Martha and Tom together. They had kept such a low profile, especially after _Brunettegate,_ that any sniff of an opportunity was bound to be snatched at. After a few guests were harassed by a pap Tom had crossed swords with before, Luke made a few calls and Martha was thrilled to get a message from Stephen Fry, who lived nearby. He invited them to stay at his place. She had met him a few times in the past, and after a chat she and Tom agreed they would move over there. Stephen’s house was a twenty-minute drive from the set, and it had high hedges, electric gates and CCTV. And most important, life for everyone else at _The Queen’s Head_ could get back to normal.

The relocation saved some aggravation, but the photographers still hung around and, deprived of their opportunities to snap Tom and Martha on the doorstep they began attempting to get onto the set. Security patrols were set up, and several times disgruntled but unapologetic paparazzi were ejected from the grounds of Oxburgh Hall. Unfortunately seventy acres was simply too great an area to cover. They kept finding new places to get in.

“What?!” Tom was staring at his phone when Martha came up beside him. They were waiting while the lighting was being reset in one of the large rooms.

“Trouble?”

He lowered his voice to a rumbling whisper. “Luke says there are some pictures on the net. Of us. Kissing. In the gardens here.” He put his arm around her shoulder. “He says they are quite… _intimate.”_

Martha felt hot and cold simultaneously. _They hadn’t done anything sexual, had they? Not outdoors. Ah…_

“If they were taken yesterday, when we… you know, after lunch…” She was trying to think, but that was the only possible occasion…

Tom was blushing and furious, but he couldn’t help the little smile that was creeping across his face. “Oh yes… That’s the only time we’ve done that, I mean _outside_ that is, isn’t it?”

It had been a beautiful day. They had enjoyed a lovely lunch which Nathan had spent drilling Karen for _Doctor Who_ anecdotes in return for _Firefly_ snippets. As they were not needed for at least an hour, Martha and Tom had taken a stroll in the gorgeous formal gardens. Wandering down towards the less manicured part of the grounds, they had reached a stream.

Tom looked back at his phone as it dinged again. “Luke says the comments are mostly either about how the photos are an invasion of our privacy – _duh!_ – or about how romantic they are. ‘Lots of cheesy stuff’, he says.”

Martha was already checking on her own phone and found a post on _Tumblr_ with what looked like a full set. The first one was of her leaning against a tree with Tom leaning against her, both of them lost in a kiss, his hand on her cheek.

“Oh God Thomas, you know the next offer we’ll get will be for a bloody soap opera. He must have a fucking humungous lens or be behind the next tree.” She showed him and he tried to stifle the smile. It was a lovely image, despite the method of its capture.

The rest were in the same vein: the next appeared to have been taken a few moments before or after the first, it was of Tom kissing her forehead tenderly as they walked across the little footbridge; there were several of the two of them walking back towards the Hall, one holding hands, one with Martha stretching up to whisper into Tom’s ear, another one with them laughing. They were all in focus. Every image showed two happy, normal people, free to live their lives.

“Well…” Martha looked up at Tom’s face. He was trying to keep it neutral: he knew how she felt about this kind of thing. But the pictures were so… “…they could be _worse_ ,” she continued, “I mean, these are actually rather nice, aren’t they? Will it weaken the cause if we frame one and put it on the mantel?” She started to giggle, and soon so did he. Within half a minute most of the people with them were joining in as word got around.

By the end of the day the news platforms, gossip sites and social networks that concerned themselves with such things were full of the photographs. And the consensus was that these were pictures of two people very much in love. And, moreover, who looked wonderful together. Martha didn’t look again, but many of her friends kept her up to date. And if they hadn’t, the high-five Karen gave her as she passed would have told her everything. In the course of one day, Martha had been transformed from the eccentric choice of partner for the sexiest man alive into the woman every other woman wanted to be. They were the new Burton & Taylor, and not just because of the movie.


	10. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “For I am he am born to tame you, Kate”  
> The Taming of the Shrew, William Shakespeare
> 
> “You know, time passes and some things just feel the same.”  
> (From ‘Scenes’ by Martha East)
> 
> More time has passed, and two co-productions are about to premier.

## APRIL 2017

_“It should be a source of collective shame that women in our society are still, I am sad to say, judged largely, and if not exclusively then at least initially by their appearance. Only the very young and the very old seem to be spared from it, and I wonder for how long. It does not seem to matter how powerful a woman is, or how capable or distinguished: remarks will still be made about her weight, about that suit she wore, or the shoes she chose, or what has she done with her hair…? And if you are foolish enough to date a famous man, or to put your head above the parapet in some way, then woe betide you if you are too fat, too thin, too short, too small, too dark, too Asian…_

_Progress, albeit at a snail’s pace, has been made in the field of equality, but in this matter it seems to have ground to a halt. Possibly, even, to be reversing. Surely it is not too much to ask, in the 21 stcentury, for all humans to be judged by their actions and by the content of their character? There is plenty of opportunity in life for us to show what we are made of. Yet we only see how we look._

_[…]_

_I went into acting knowing full well that it can, sometimes, be a beauty contest. In fact, my drama teacher at high school advised me against trying to make a career on the stage. I was a gangly, spotty, ginger teen at the time, so he might have had a point (I won’t name him; he has admitted his error to me since). I was undaunted, for two reasons: firstly, people telling me I shouldn’t or can’t do something is the best way to make me try harder, and secondly, because I never intended to be a glamorous leading lady. When I felt I was ready to take centre stage, I wrote those roles for myself. They rarely involved much in the way of glitz. And generally it has not been until the very recent past that I have had the chance – or indeed sought the opportunity - to wear the prettiest costumes or kiss the leading man…_

_[…]_

_Is there a solution? I believe there is, and surely it does not lie in judging men in the same way, as is becoming more common. The objectification of people, whether it be as sex symbols or as cyphers of any kind, is not acceptable. Can we put a stop to it completely, in this age of instant gratification, where someone’s private, intimate moments can be shared across the planet in a heartbeat? Probably not. But we have to keep trying.  We must teach our daughters and our sons that they are more than the sum of their parts; that their worth extends far beyond how they look; that norms of beauty are ephemeral cultural constructs that bear little relation to real lives and human desires.”_

_From: **The Goddess is in the Questions** by Martha East for **The Guardian**_

“Fuck!”

Martha sat down on the ottoman and attempted to reach her heel by twisting her leg, first one way then the other.

“Bugger, shit, stupid bloody thing!”

It crossed her mind that she was going to have to learn to moderate her language. She sat, defeated, looking down at the blush-pink silk and lace draping beautifully over her legs. The matching kitten-heeled shoes were gorgeous, but she couldn’t quite reach to get the strap up over her heel. And the back of her dress gaped open because she could not manage the discreetly hidden zip either. Not without help.

A door banged and she heard Tom’s step in the hall, followed by the clink of his keys falling into the bowl on the table there.

“Mar? Where are you?”

“Dressing room,” she called, “having a dry run for Wednesday.”

“Ooh, let me see!” He came running and as he reached the doorway he stopped. She had kicked her shoes off to stand up again and was looking at herself in one of the full-length mirrors. She turned her head to check how the rear view was and caught his eye.

“OK, do you think? I can’t get the zip all the way up on my own.” He nodded, unable to speak. She was a vision. He tried to smile, but his mouth would only clench into a tight line, so moved was he by the sight of her.

“That bad, huh?” She walked over to him and clasped her hands around his neck, stretching up to kiss his mouth. He had to lean a little further now in order to reach.

“You look amazing. You always do, but that dress… Wow, Mar.”

She smiled at him. “I had help finding it. Thank goodness for your sis and Elsa; they have exquisite taste, _and_ they know where to look.” Martha had tended in the past to dress fairly conservatively for events, wearing smart suits or simple cocktail dresses. But this was her first big premiere as a lead. This time she had to go all-out: the full diva. “I’d better take it off before it gets creased.”

Tom grinned and raised his eyebrows suggestively. “That sounds like an excellent idea.” He walked around her, searching for the fastening of the ribbon, the only part she had managed alone.

“Here, dopey...” She held the end of the sash up and he gently undid the bow.

“Like the best present ever,” he murmured, carefully sliding the gown off her shoulders, helping her to step out of it and placing it on its hanger. He gazed at her, his heart so full he felt it might burst. Her hair was shining, her eyes bright, her cheeks glowing. The new soft beige lingerie she had invested in flattered her pale skin. She looked more beautiful than he could ever remember. Her critical gaze was on her own reflection as he stepped up behind her and wrapped his arms around, his big hands running over her belly.

“So, how is my family this afternoon?” His lips were teasing the skin on her neck as his eyes sought hers in the mirror.

“The sprog’s alright. Mummy’s a bit pissed off because she can’t do her own shoes up anymore.”

“Eheheheh. It’s only temporary, _Grumpy McPreggison_.  And you don’t need shoes where we’re going.” He scooped her into his arms and carried her, bridal style, into the adjoining bedroom.

“Thomas! I swear you’re more hormonal than me. You horny man, we had sex this morning!”

“Oh I’m sorry darling, I’d forgotten you are no longer interested in these merely physical activities.” Reverently and theatrically, he put her gently on to her feet by the bed and pretended to walk away with a smirk on his face.

“Don’t push your luck Hiddleston, and get your sweet arse and… _Loki’s pokey-stick_ back here now!”

He turned, shaking his head in mock sorrow. “I could have sworn you just wrote a piece about the dangers of objectifying people…”

She gave him a conceding chuckle. “Watch the undies, love. I need them on Wednesday too.”

He undid her bra as if it were made of glass. Her breasts, enlarged by her pregnancy, called to his lips but he moved on to her knickers first, holding her hands as she shimmied the silk shorts down her legs and kicked them away.

“Hey! I thought we had to be careful with those!” he scolded.

She slapped him playfully on the arm. “Just don’t stand on them. They cost more than my first pay check.”

His eyes were roaming her as his hands guided her backwards onto their bed. Martha watched him, love and lust overwhelming her. He removed his own clothes with alacrity and stretched out alongside her, resting on his elbow. He was supposed to be finessing his piece for the _Guardian,_ but there was plenty of time. He allowed his free hand to wander; over her arm, tracing the archipelagos of freckles, up to her shoulder, teasing the soft skin over her clavicles until it came to a rest cupping the heavy fullness of her breast.

Their eyes met. So often they talked each other breathless, but not this time. There was no need for words. His hand travelled lower, caressing the ripeness of her swollen abdomen, and once more the pride and excitement, which he had found hard to hide, rose in him. Then his questing fingers reached the soft hairs over her mound and her sighs became whimpers.

 

“I really should get that thing for the Guardian finished. It’s supposed to go out on Wednesday with yours.” He was sitting up on the edge of the bed and reaching for his clothes. Martha was tracing the line of his lumbar spine with her fingertips. She was lying, still blissful in a post-coital haze: she had submitted her article already.

“Yeah, I know. But I fancied a longer cuddle.” She pouted, but it was no good. He knew she was dying to read what he had written, so she would not stop him from getting up. She watched him dress, left breathless by his beauty as usual.

 “This doesn’t bother you, put you off even a bit?” She waved a hand over her belly as she scooted herself up the bed so she could lean back on the pillows. Martha had wondered if Tom would feel the same about her body as it changed. She felt like a sumo wrestler some days, not in the least bit sexy. But somehow, he seemed more turned on by her than ever. It puzzled her a little.

He stopped dressing for a moment to look at her again: his beautiful, funny and brilliant Martha; his _Kate_ , his _Audrey._ His, _all his_.  How could he explain to her that she had given him everything he ever wanted, even when he had not known he wanted it?  What he had thought was impossible. A life, a career, a commitment, a purpose. Her passion, and now their baby.

“No,” he managed, “not in the slightest. Why would it? It’s my fault, after all.” He fastened his jeans and lay down beside her again, running his long hands over her bump. “This little chap in here is proof that we love each other so very much that we had to make that love flesh. What could possibly be off-putting about that? Plus your boobs, my love: they’re even more delicious than ever. Now, my needy one, I must get to it.”

 

_“I suppose you express it this way: I don’t believe in half-hearted efforts. Life today is too complex, too competitive to acknowledge, let alone reward you for something that is not your best. The irony is that even when it is your best, and however fulsomely you apply yourself, you might still fail. So why bother? Why try so hard with so much uncertainty? Because if it is in you, then you have no other option; it is beyond your control._

_[…]_

_A young actor should enter the profession knowing that they must devote themselves to their career for years, often to the exclusion of much else. The irony is that often you have to bury yourself in the feelings of your characters, wringing out every last drop of your emotions onstage or on camera, to later find your own life fairly deprived of true emotional content. Why? Because happiness also requires your full commitment. It’s a job. It’s a decision, a choice. Another effort that can’t be in any way half-hearted. That was a lesson I struggled to learn for many years. I was not, I am not alone it that, in acting as in so many fields._

_[…]_

_Choosing a demanding career is not for everyone, of course, and I know that for some people, simply finding their own path takes a lifetime. The same applies to companionship, and family.  But that wandering, that search is in itself a choice of a kind. The important thing is that you commit to it, and that throughout the search you are honest, with others but above all with yourself, as Polonius has it. “And it must follow, as the night the day,/Thou canst not then be false to any man.””_

From: **_Strive Mightily_** _by Tom Hiddleston for **The Guardian**_

****

“Please, love, come and zip this fucking dress up for me, will you?” Tom was in the bathroom, just brushing his teeth before dressing himself. He thought she sounded a little tense. “And the shoes…god, I want my body back!”

“It won’t be long now, darling.” His deft fingers pulled the zip fastener steadily up and the silk and lace outlined her fecund body beautifully. “Oh Mar, you look… People are going to… die.”

“I do hope not, Thomas. What do you mean, die?” She was peering into the mirror.

“I mean, you look like…” For once, he was lost for words. “…a goddess.”

She laughed at him, but the truth was she was deeply moved. “ _The Goddess of Questions_ … _The Guardian_ will be chuffed.”

The intercom buzzed. “That’ll be the Mums.” He reached for his robe. “I’ll be back to help you with your shoes in a mo…”

She heard their voices and called her greeting, and was puzzled when they did not come through to see her, not even her own mother whom she knew to be incandescent with excitement. Then Tom returned, alone, carrying a parcel wrapped in shiny blue paper. 

“ _Thomas_ …?”

“Just shush for a minute, Martha.” He guided her to sit with him on the ottoman by the wall. “I wanted to get you something for tonight. Something special. Something beautiful for the cleverest, the most precious, beautiful girl I know. We did it Martha; our film, our lives; our family. I love you.” He handed her the package.

She opened the paper carefully. It was a flat, round box and when Martha lifted the lid she was met the sight of the prettiest, classiest, most expensive looking diamond necklace she had ever seen. “Oh Tom…”

“Before you get started, all the stones are certified clean.”

“Shut up and kiss me, posh-boy.”

 

In less than an hour the car was there to collect them. Tom was his usual immaculate dinner-suited self, Diana looked cool, calm and beautiful; Martha’s mother was shaking. Tom leaned over and squeezed her hand.

“There’s no need to be nervous, Barbara.”

“Oh, I’m not, dear. Just a bit over-excited.” She giggled. “We don’t get much of this sort of thing in Harlow.”

Martha had to agree, it all seemed a very long way from the council flat she grew up in. Diana was looking at her son and his partner with a glint in her eye. “You know, next time you do this, you’ll need a baby-sitter.”

The couple looked at each other. The soppy grin had returned to Tom’s face.

“I can give you the names of some good nanny agencies, you know.”

Martha heard her mother harrumph. She knew Barbara thought she should give up work while the baby was small, but Martha wanted to continue with the commitments she had. She was contracted to write a sequel to _Sunday Afternoons With Dad_ for the National Theatre, and she expected to be able to do that in the next few months.  Beyond that she had been cast in roles in two films, one scheduled for shooting in December and the other in February or March.

“Thanks. We haven’t quite decided yet, but we will need some help, it’s true. I want to keep the work going, even if it is at a lower intensity.”

“Me too!” Tom piped up but said no more after all three women rolled their eyes.

She turned to her mother, beside her on the back seat. “I know you had to get on with it, Mum. And that you had to clean at night when I was little, and you wish you could have stayed at home with me. But things are different now. I will be there with him, or her, for as much time as I can. Full-time, for the first few months. But I have worked so long and so hard to get to this place, Mum. Sacrificed so much…” She looked at Tom. “We both have.”

Barbara shrugged. “Yes, yes…I know, it’s a whole new world, blah, blah… As long as the child isn’t harmed, I suppose it’ll be alright.” She reached out and put her hand over her daughter’s belly.

“And how wonderful,” said Diana, her hand on Barbara’s arm, “to grow up, having _such_ a talented mother. Just think of it!”

Martha’s mother glowed with pride. “She is pretty special, it’s true.” She patted her daughter on the arm. “And Daddy’s not bad either.” She winked at Tom.

Tom looked at each of the women in turn. “Ladies! No need to fight over me, I love you all!” he announced in an exaggeratedly charming tone, which earned him another round of eye rolling just as they reached Leicester Square.

Martha gazed through the window feeling rather stunned. She had been to these things before, but not one as big and never as a star. There were massive images of her and Tom everywhere, _The Taming of the Shrew_ spelt out in giant letters on the outside of the cinema and cardboard cut-outs of the cast in costume. Bidding the two mothers farewell until later and unfolding herself carefully with Tom’s help, she mounted the kerb and began the walk along the red carpet. Hundreds of the fans were calling his name, but she heard ‘Martha!’ almost as much. And Tom went nowhere without her. He took selfies; he signed pictures; he chatted to people; he lifted up small children, just as he had always done, but he did all those things tonight with his love by his side. One arm was protectively around her at all times.

Many of the fans spoke to Martha. Not a few ignored him in the process. There were polite enquiries about her health, many compliments for her dress and her new jewellery, and when they reached the press line, a lovely surprise. Chris Hewitt was there with a huge teddy bear dressed as _Loki_. He handed it to them for the benefit of the photographers. As the four of them posed (it was a _very large_ bear), Chris spoke into her ear.

“I hope you have forgiven me, Martha.”

“Nah, it’s fine. All forgiven, it’s the world we live in, right?” She saw relief in his face, so she leaned in to speak softly, “But please, think twice next time. It’s the likes of _Empire_ that need to lead by example.” He nodded. When she looked back as she and Tom walked on, she saw his cheeks had reddened.

 It was interesting to see how the press had changed their approach towards the couple.  The questions were mostly focused and on point; they knew them and what they stood for. Martha only had to employ her _Paddington_ _Bear_ -style ‘hard stare’ once or twice in response to implicitly sexist or demeaning words. Tom kept with her, smiling at the offenders, even as he guided his bristling partner along to the next microphone. At last they neared the doors of the theatre and there was an end to it.

 “Are you OK, love? Your back and feet not too sore?”

“I’m fine. It’s all fine.” She lifted her hand to stroke the side of his head. “You look very handsome tonight, Daddy.”

“Why, thank you.” He nodded his head in a mock bow, then took her head in his hands as he often did. “You, on the other hand, win the prize for cleverest and most talented, not to mention _hottest_ Mummy in show-biz.”

They both laughed. She looked up into his face and suddenly, for a second that felt like an eternity, in the midst of all the lights and noise and people, it was only them; in a bubble of silence amid the madding crowd.

Only Tom and Martha. She stretched up onto her toes and whispered in his ear.

“Sit by my side, and let the world slip: we shall ne’er be younger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are more stories about these two to come. I hope you will want to read more.


End file.
